


In Their Hands

by Desert_Sea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, BDSM, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub, F/M, Oral Sex, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, Spanking, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-05-24 23:48:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 61,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6171622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desert_Sea/pseuds/Desert_Sea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After eight years of hospitalisation and relative isolation, Severus Snape is sent to the Galladdon Retreat for intensive therapy. Dr Hermione Granger is a psychotherapist specialising in psycho-sexual disorders. Can she help him or is she the one who requires therapy?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Their Hands

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Harry Potter or any other characters/things/places created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money from my fan-fiction.

Dr Hermione Granger flicked through his file again but the blur of words did nothing to dislodge the cold stone of dread that had settled in her stomach. The perfunctory summation of his existence wasn’t just detached, clinical—it was positively sparse. If she hadn’t known better she would have thought it had been concocted. For what purpose? To be deliberately misleading? For whom?

Regardless, the pages of blandness were, at the very least, unbecoming of a man with a past as chequered as she had known his to be. But, at its most nefarious, seemed to add weight to the stone that sank further with each passing minute. Professor Severus Snape’s mere presence had always been tangible for her as a student. It had dragged at her. His gaze. His scorn. And now, even after an almost eight year reprieve, the mere thought of beholding him could conjure the same. She tossed the folder onto her desk and sighed— _could she be any more Pavlovian!_ Her fingers caught in the roots of her unruly hair as she gazed at the ceiling. How useful was a psychotherapist who knew every theoretical underpinning of the addled mind, but couldn’t counter something so fundamental?

Kicking her heel into the carpet, she swivelled her chair to behold the floor to ceiling vista outside her window. A mere sliver of glass separated her from a world so beautiful that it never failed to render her breathless. Spires of trees stretching back beyond forever—early autumn exposing snatches of sky between the bones of branches, and leaves of colours never meant for a world as painfully broken as she knew it to be.

But, with time ticking only on the wilt and wither of leaves, and with the perspective that a few concerted breaths could bring, the view would inevitably transform her. She would eventually succumb to the heady infusion that a newfound appreciation of the ‘bigness’ of the natural world could bring.

But even still, thoughts of her former Professor continued to creep in at the fringes of her consciousness.

_What had the war done to him? And what of the intervening years?_

Hogwarts, or more precisely, Professor McGonagall wanted him back. _But at what cost_? The figure that loomed larger than any other in her memory had had eight years to evolve or devolve. She had absolutely no purchase on where the years of hospitalisation and relative isolation had taken him. Despite his previously unwavering countenance she had no doubt that he had been as vulnerable to the chaos as the rest of them, and likely moreso.

He’d died three times. They’d brought him back. _Had he wanted the other? Did he want it now?_

“Grangerlocks! Look sharp!” George Weasley poked his shaggy head in the doorway. “Have you forgotten? The Colossus of Grumpiness is arriving today.”

Unfortunately, she hadn’t forgotten.

Hermione reluctantly swivelled away from the window. “No, that fact hadn’t slipped my mind.”

George grinned at her. “I have some of my best gags lined up for him. I’ll have him laughing in no time.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and finally gave up a smile. She knew he was trying to make her laugh. The very idea of George trying to apply his off-beat brand of humour therapy to Professor Snape was both ridiculous and terrifying in equal measure. 

“You know Sprout’s back too?”

Hermione fanned out the other files on her desk before pulling Pomona Sprouts’ for another glance. “Yes, her compulsions have returned. Apparently the hypnotherapy didn’t work.”

“Now, Dr Granger.” George raised a finger. “Dr Ellory is a . . . “

“Highly experienced hypnotherapist with over five hundred successfully treated clients . . . yes I know.” Hermione huffed, dumping the file back with the others.

“Do I detect an ever so slight air of cynicism about her methods?” He pretended to look shocked.

“How many times have her ‘successful’ clients returned?”

George tugged at his bottom lip. “Quite a few since I’ve been here. That’s eighteen months. How long have you been doing this?”

“Two and a half years.”

He slapped his palm against the door. “Merlin! That long? No wonder you can’t find a man.”

Hermione’s mouth no longer dropped open with such statements. As a female sex therapist she had heard every misogynistic innuendo imaginable, many of them, admittedly, from the mouth of George Weasley, who was repeatedly disappointed by her failure to bite.

“Why would I need a man when I have you around?” She gave him her sweetest smile.

“So now I don’t even qualify as a man?” George pretended to look hurt but was betrayed by the permanent glint in his eye. “Perhaps it’s not a man you’re after?”

Crossing her arms, Hermione rose from her seat. “I’m not having this conversation with you. Haven’t you got whoopee cushions to blow up or something?”

“Nope.” George pulled a packet of something from his pocket. “Whoopee cushions are so ‘First Wizarding War’. This is the latest in cutting edge hilarity. Helium gum. You chew it and your voice goes squeaky. Snape’s going to love it.”

Even as she managed to push him out her office door, Hermione’s smile dropped away. Leaning heavily against the timber, she suddenly felt her energy drain into her boots. The wind had picked up. Now gusts of it plucked at the limbs of saplings waving at her helplessly beyond the glass. If she’d been more maudlin, and she wasn’t far off, it might have struck her as symbolic, premonitory.

She’d given two and a half years of her life to the Galladdon Retreat—trying to help those deeply scarred by the ravages of the Wizarding Wars and, equally, those overwhelmed by the tide of darkness that debrided and exposed them—the inherent frailty of the human condition. Admittedly, she’d experienced considerable success. The retreat had allowed her to work intensively to treat some of the most intractable of conditions and recalcitrant of clients. Her knowledge was exemplary and she genuinely cared about people—understanding them as both an intuitive and an empath.

In fact, she’d never refused a client. Never even thought about it. Until now.

Severus Snape was the one man, the one person who had been able to slip, seemingly effortlessly, under her skin as a student. Although she had become adept at countering the emotional projections and personal intrusions of clients wrestling with her as the incarnation of their inner demons, she was concerned that, with seven other clients to treat, he would monopolise her time, both professionally and in the privacy of her own thoughts as, inexplicably, even in his absence, he did now.

If it was an issue of equity, she would refuse to treat him. And who knows if he would even be open to considering the possible sexual underpinnings of his condition. Although that wasn’t necessarily an avenue for investigation with every client, she knew enough of his history—his sexual humiliation as a student and unrequited love for Lily Evans—that there was a high likelihood that he continued to harbour residual emotional and sexual conflicts.    

He may refuse to engage with her at all. An ex-student therapist may well be the last person on earth he would be willing to interact with. But that wasn’t necessarily an issue. There were three alternative therapists available, although one _was_ George Weasley and she couldn’t help thinking that Snape’s response to his art and humour therapy might be less than enthusiastic.

She checked her watch. Pre-arrival meeting. Nostrils flaring and eyes fluttering closed, she let her head tip against the door, temporarily shutting out the erratic gusts that continued to contort the world beyond. They hadn’t all been successful. She sometimes wondered if this bubble of sanity they were attempting to create was, for some clients, nothing more than a half-way house for a soul already on its way out of this world. Some they could pull back from the brink. Others, however, would simply wave to them as they floated away.

***

“Wands will be confiscated upon arrival.”

“Good luck with that,” George muttered into his coffee.

“What was that?” Aidan Lynch stopped pacing and looked up from his clipboard.

George shook his head after a deep swallow. “Snape’s not going to want to give his up.”

“I’ve read his file.” Lynch stared at George with piercing blue eyes. “He might be a war hero but he’s not coming in here with a wand. He’s going to be treated the same as everyone else.”

George’s eyes flicked to Hermione and she could tell he was thinking the same as she. Snape _wasn’t_ the same as everyone else.

Lynch continued to pace. “I’ve put Snape in with Mollison and Jaeger in with Creevey. Anyone forsee any issues with that?”

“Mr Mollison is still suffering acute Cruciatus symptoms.” Simone Ellory slid her glasses down her nose to peer at him. “From what I’ve read, Snape’s not the most tolerant of individuals. We don’t want him creating further issues.”

“What do you think?” Lynch put a hand on his hip and looked at Hermione who was cradling her tea cup in her lap.

“Professor Snape’s case file is so insubstantial, I wouldn’t like to speculate what state he will be in after all this time. If there are issues, we can always relocate him.”

Lynch gave a brief nod and continued. “Sprout will be in with Calder and Lenna with Sarah.”

“Do we have a surname for her yet?” Dr Ellory asked, tapping her pen on the sheet of paper before her.

Lynch shook his head. “All we know is that her name’s Sarah and she’s thought to have selective mutism. But that’s why she’s been referred here. We need to determine the exact nature of her illness and try to establish her history and where her family are.”

“She’s going to require some intensive regression therapy,” Dr Ellory stated.

“I think it would be prudent to assess her properly first before making any assumptions,” Hermione said quietly.

“Not everyone’s problems are sexual,” Dr Ellory responded coldly, not looking at her.

“If you think that’s the limit of my knowledge and expertise then perhaps you might need to consult my CV,” Hermione replied.

“Ladies." Lynch raised a hand. "Perhaps you can leave your ‘whose dick is bigger’ competition for later? We only have a few minutes before the bus arrives.”

Hermione huffed as George smirked into his mug.

“Okay, have we missed anything?” Lynch combed his fingers through his thick greying hair as he looked between the three individuals seated before him.

“Do we know how Emily Lenna’s burns are being managed?” asked Hermione.

“I understand she still has pressure garments over most of her body,” Lynch replied. “We have asked for a six week supply of all of her usual salves and potions and I’ve put together a physical therapy regime to increase her range of movement after the scar contractures. I’m yet to examine her, so I’ll have to make a judgement on what she might be capable of after that.”

He hadn’t answered her question but Hermione decided to leave it. She couldn’t remember a more diverse group with a greater range of issues and needs. It was going to be challenging to say the least.

“Toot, toot,” George murmured.

Hermione looked up to see that the bus had pulled up outside the long windows at the front of the retreat.

 _Toot, toot indeed_.

***

He hadn’t changed. Physically at least. He may have been a shade thinner, a line or two more may have taken up residence on his forehead but he was essentially the same Snape from her years at Hogwarts.

In some ways she wished he’d changed—become stooped and frail—dependent enough to be easily cared for. But he was far from frail. He was still frighteningly formidable. She could feel it.

Entering the room with the others, tall, lean, dressed entirely in black, he was instantly out of place. He could be the concierge, or the butler or even the therapist, but never the patient, not the one apparently spiralling out of control, in desperate need of healing.

The tension in his shoulders, the elegant grace of his stance and the inscrutable expression were all indicators that he was going to be as difficult as she’d anticipated.

Lynch directed the new arrivals to sit on the chairs that had been placed in a cluster opposite the therapists in the main activity room. Everyone, that is, except the woman, Emily Lenna, who was already seated in a wheelchair.

“Welcome everyone.” Lynch spread his muscular arms wide. “My name is Aidan Lynch. Some of you might already recognise me. In a previous life I was captain of the Irish Quidditch team but, since retirement, I have become a therapist, specialising in physical therapy. I started up the Galladdon Retreat four years ago and we have had hundreds of clients through this facility in that time.”

The small group watched him with emotions ranging from suspicion to apprehension—those that had been referred. Others, like Pomona Sprout, wore expressions of cautious relief, while the man that must be Shaun Mollison writhed and grimaced, the latent effects of the Cruciatus wracking his emaciated body.

“You should have already read and agreed to the Galladdon terms of stay and be aware that this, for most of you, will comprise a six week period of intensive therapy. You will be required to participate in our structured activities but there will be plenty of opportunities for you to interact with the natural beauty outside of this place which we very much consider to be therapeutic in its own right.”

Lynch nodded to each of those seated as he spoke, using all of the communication techniques that they had honed as professionals over years of training and engagement.

“But before I show you around the facilities, I would like to introduce you to the other therapists that you will be working with over the coming weeks. We have Dr Simone Ellory who is our hypnotherapy specialist.”

Dr Ellory gave a pearly white smile and raised a manicured hand. Hermione was surprised to see her looking so charming but she had noted that the older woman’s eyes had rarely left Snape since he’d entered.

“And Dr Hermione Granger, our psychotherapist specialising in sex therapy.” Hermione gave what she hoped was a warm smile as she acknowledged the group. Snape’s expression didn’t change. _Did he recognise her at all?_

“And finally we have George Weasley, our art and humour therapist.”

George nodded his shaggy head and waved a rambunctious hand, clearly eager to get on with lightening the mood.

“So without further ado,” Lynch continued. “I’d ask that you now hand over your wands. I’ll lock them away for the duration of your stay, whereupon they will be returned.” He gave a commanding smile that indicated that he wouldn’t be swayed on this point.

Each withdrew their wands from bags, sleeves and pockets before handing them over. Snape, instead, held his balanced on his pale fingers, as if daring Lynch to take it from him. Hermione held her breath and felt George tense next to her. Lynch’s blue eyes didn’t leave Snape’s onyx ones as he plucked the wand from his fingers. “Professor.” He nodded, before moving on.

Grasping the collection in one large hand, Lynch stood with his feet wide apart. _A reassertion of dominance?_ Hermione wondered.

“Are there any questions?” He inclined his head toward the group.

There was silence apart from occasional tics and grunts from Mollison.

Then a hand slowly rose in the air.

Lynch raised his chin. “Professor Snape?”

“Yes . . . er . . . Mr Quidditch . . .” His deep, familiar tone was as dry as parchment. “I was of the understanding that we were simply on a day trip to the Museum of Abominations. Am I to assume that we were misinformed? Or is this, in fact, the aforementioned location, whereupon the abominations in question are a gaggle of former Hogwarts students masquerading as professionals?”

Hermione closed her eyes. _Fuck!_

 

 


	2. Opening Their Hands

“Take a seat, Mr Jaeger.” Hermione gestured to the pair of chairs in the corner of her office. She didn’t like sitting behind a desk when speaking with clients.

The well-built man sauntered over and flopped down on one of the seats, immediately crossing his ankle over his opposite knee and propping his hands behind his head.

 _Expansive posturing_.

Hermione decided it was too early to challenge him and so responded by sitting opposite, crossing her legs and turning slightly toward him.

He wore a bored expression as he scratched at the thick stubble under his chin.

“Is it alright if I call you Robert?” She smiled.

“Call me whatever you like,” he huffed, before looking at his expensive watch as if he had somewhere else to be.

“So, Robert, you’re a Magical Engineer?”

“It’s all in my file. Haven’t you read it?”

Hermione ignored his question.

“Can you tell me why you’ve been referred to us?”

She knew he had anger issues and had broken someone’s nose on a building site but wanted to hear it from him.

“I don’t know why I’m here.” He shook his head. “I have no idea. I’m absolutely fine.”

 _Denial_.

“Well you’re very lucky,” Hermione replied. “Most of the people who come here have some sort of difficulty that they want help with.”

He pursed his lips, looking nonplussed.

“Well, not me.” His biceps jerked a couple of times behind his head. “I’m doing really well. Things are great at home. I have a lot of responsibility at work but I like that. I’m totally confused about why they wanted me to come here.”

Hermione nodded and wrote something on her pad. “It sounds like you’re happy with how you feel at the moment. Maybe they made a mistake by sending you here?”

He stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. “Aren’t you supposed to be finding out if there’s something wrong with me?”

“Well, only you know that,” Hermione replied. “If you tell me you’re fine, then all I can say is that’s fantastic news.”

He flapped his elbows a couple of times and wiggled in his chair. “Well, they must have thought there was something I needed help with to send me here.”

“But you say there’s not?”

He shook his head but looked less sure of himself. There was a long pause as Hermione waited for him to speak. She was very practised at waiting. Not filling in the gaps. The awkwardness was a big part of the process.

His knee started jiggling as he watched her watching him.

“So you’re not going to test me or anything?”

“Not if you say there’s nothing wrong. There would be no point. I wouldn’t want to waste your time.”

His breathing deepened and he jerked his chin to the side.

“You have a pretty cushy job then don’t you,” he commented, his lip curling.

“Do I?”

“You just sit there and get me to do all the work.”

“I can’t do anything unless you have a problem. I need your permission to investigate what’s happening inside your head and if there’s nothing wrong, I can’t go in there.”

He looked around the office with a critical eye. “You’re a sex therapist are you?”

“My specialisation is psycho-sexual dysfunction.”

“Do you want to know about my sex life?”

“Do you have a problem with it?”

“Shouldn’t you be the judge of that?”

“Only you know if you have a problem.”

His jaw muscles bulged. “You’re being condescending.”

 _Projection_.

“What does that feel like?”

“It feels annoying. You’re being annoying.”

 _Further projection_.

“How does that feel inside you?”

“It’s not a problem. It’s just annoying.”

 _Minimising_.

“I want to know how it feels, physically, inside you.”

He crossed his arms over his heaving chest, his jiggling knee became more erratic. He was clearly trying to avoid connecting with his anger. She wondered if it only came out at work. He had a wife and three children. Were they ever on the receiving end?

“It feels . . . annoying.”

 _Avoidance_.

“You’re naming an emotion, not the physical sensations.”

“Is that your bedroom next door?” He lifted his chin to peer down his nose at her.

 _Attempted dominance_.

She didn’t reply, holding his gaze.

He rubbed a hand over his stubble and blinked a few times rapidly before letting out a long breath.

“It’s . . . maybe I don’t feel comfortable. All of the time.”

 _Now they were getting somewhere_.

“Tell me about it . . .”

***

Hermione yawned into her palm. It was 11pm. They were only just getting around to the day’s debrief after the residents had retired to their shared rooms.

“You look like crap,” George remarked as he sat down at the table with his notes and a cup of tea.

She was too tired to respond. The others joined them—Simone Ellory with a glass of red wine and Lynch with a bottle of water.

“You start.” Lynch nodded to her before chugging down the water.

“Um . . . she glanced at her notes . . . Robert Jaeger—narcissistic personality disorder, some response to therapy. Likely sexual aggression. Will investigate further. Pomona Sprout— her compulsions seem to have been exacerbated by an accident in her greenhouse. I want to work with her further on connecting with her anxiety. George, if you could help her to represent it creatively it might help.”

George nodded and wrote something on his paper.

“Dennis Creevey—complicated presentation. Obviously still traumatised by the loss of his older brother, Colin, but I suspect some early attachment disorder. Infantile sexual fantasies. Breast fixation.”

“You need to protect yourself against attachment,” Lynch warned.

She nodded. “I’m aware of it. He’s extremely vulnerable. I might need you or George to sit in on some sessions.”

They both nodded.

“I think Mollison is full physical therapy unless you advise otherwise?” She glanced at Lynch and he nodded.

“And I’ll see Emily, Sarah and Katherine tomorrow.”

“And Snape?” Simone twisted to face her, balancing the wine glass on the tips of her fingers.

“I don’t believe it’s in his best interests to see me at this point in time,” Hermione replied, folding her notes.

“I disagree.” Simone took another mouthful of wine.

“What do you have on Snape?” Lynch flicked his hand toward the older woman, wanting to wrap up proceedings as quickly as possible.

“Well . . .” she drawled before drawing in a deep breath.

Hermione rolled her eyes at George. She wasn’t in the mood for another self-indulgent, wine-fuelled analysis of anyone, even if it was Snape.

“I found him to be . . . enigmatic is probably the best word.”

Hermione barely suppressed a sigh.

“And I would argue that, according to his performance on all of the psychiatric tests, it may not be necessary to keep him here for the full six weeks.”

Hermione blinked, quite unable to comprehend what she was saying. “Of course he performed well on the tests.”

Simone frowned over her glasses, clearly unimpressed with being interrupted. “You obviously feel that you have some sort of superior knowledge. Please share it with us.”

Hermione was too tired to appease her. “He’s too smart for the usual tests. He knows exactly what to say. There’s no point administering any of them.”

Lynch raised an eyebrow at Simone and she sighed, sliding her glass onto the table. “He’s certainly not stupid. She might be right. But I did get some interesting results with his hypnotherapy.”

Hermione shook her head.

“What now?” Simone growled, turning on her.

“He can’t be hypnotised,” she said.

Simone barked out a derisive laugh. “And since when were you the expert in hypnotherapy?”

Hermione closed her eyes and rubbed them with her fingertips. “I don’t need to be an expert. I know Snape. He’s a Legilimens and an Occlumens. He can’t be hypnotised.”

“He has no wand you stupid girl,” Simone sneered, showing her teeth which were no longer pearly white but wine-stained and trollish.

“His wandless magic is more powerful than most people’s wand magic,” Hermione ground out in response.

The older woman gave a dismissive wave before throwing back another gulp of wine. “I know why you’re saying that.”

Hermione was about to ask her what the hell she meant but, unfortunately, she soon found out.

“When Snape was under hypnosis.” She directed her statement to Lynch and George. “We delved into a few . . . memories. And one happened to be of Dr Granger here.” She threw her a snide sideways look before continuing. “He told me about catching _Miss_ Granger masturbating inside one of the classrooms.”

“What!” Hermione leapt up so fast that her chair crashed to the ground behind her.

Simone shrugged. “He was very specific. I believe it to be a true recollection.”

Hermione was flushed and shaking with fury. “It’s a lie! A complete fabrication!”

Lynch stood and put a hand on Hermione’s shoulder. “What are you so worked up about? How many times have you been falsely accused of engaging in sexual acts?”

It was true. She’d lost count of the number of times she’d been implicated in sex scandals by projecting clients. But somehow this was different. She felt an overwhelming sense of unfairness. Perhaps it was young Hermione, the misunderstood child, returning to haunt her.

Catching the satisfied smirk on Simone’s face, Hermione turned on her heel before storming out the door. “I’m going to bed.”

She lay awake wondering what he was playing at. Furious with herself for being furious. She never let herself get worked up like this. All she could think about was swearing. She desperately needed sleep. But when it finally came, her dreams were far from peaceful.

***

“Who do you have first?” George took a large mouthful of muesli, allowing milk to dribble down his chin.

“Katherine Calder. You?” Hermione was finishing a small tub of yoghurt. It was all she could stomach.

“I’m thinking of trying Sprout and Creevey together with some laughter therapy,” George spoke thickly, spraying bits of oat on the table. “They know each other.”

Hermione nodded. It was a good idea.

George watched her fastidiously scraping the final remnants from the ridges of her yoghurt container.

“You could pensieve him,” he said.

Hermione looked up. “Who?”

“Snape. You could force him to the pensieve if you want to confirm his memories.”

Hermione shook her head. “He’s trying it on. I don’t want to give him any credence at all.”

George considered her words. “Are you going to see him?”

“This afternoon.” Hermione dropped her spoon into the tub and stood. “And I’m expecting it to be a truly joyful experience.”

***

Severus Snape sat with his arms crossed, regarding her from across the desk. He’d ignored the offer of the comfortable chairs in the corner, immediately sitting so that she was forced to take up the swivel chair opposite.

The role exchange, exemplified by their relative positions to the desk, felt decidedly unnatural but she was determined not to be thrown.

“Why did you lie about your memories?” she asked immediately, clasping her hands on the desk in front of her.

He stared at her for a long moment, his shining black eyes shifting about her face, both examining her and prying her apart.

Hermione was an expert in silence, but with him it was excruciating.

He breathed in suddenly. “How did it make you feel?”

His dark timbre lingered on the air. The dissonance of having his classroom voice in her office was both surreal and unpleasant.

She ignored the question. “I would like to know why you lied to Dr Ellory under hypnosis.”

His eyebrow twitched up slightly. “Hypnosis?”

Hermione felt herself wanting to blink in acknowledgement of the unlikelihood that he had actually been under hypnosis, but she couldn’t afford to be siding with him. Not yet.

“You lied and told her that you had caught me masturbating in a classroom.”

He watched her again. Even more closely. Scrutinising her expression. Her colour. Her breathing.

She had never been so schooled in her physical response as she was right now. She felt like she’d developed locked-in syndrome.

He slowly raised his chin. “I asked you . . . how it made you feel.”

Hermione noticed her clasped knuckles turning white and tried to relax them. “That is none of your concern, Professor.”

“Oh, but it is . . . Dr . . . Granger.”

Hermione could feel herself wanting to suck in more air but she couldn’t afford to. Not with him practically counting the molecules—analysing her inhalations and exhalations for discrepancies.

“If,” he continued, “you happened to laugh the suggestion off or dismiss it outright, I would determine that you have the maturity to claim expertise in this field. If, on the other hand, you flew into an indignant rage, which is what I suspect occurred judging by the pulse fluttering at your throat and the blush tinting your cheekbones, then . . . perhaps . . . we have something to work with.”

Hermione let herself breathe freely. He already knew she was outraged. Fainting would be even less appropriate.

“So you did it for a response,” she replied tersely.

“Of course.”

“You haven’t spoken to me in eight years and you considered this to be the most appropriate way to initiate communication?”

“If I wanted to avoid superficialities. Yes.”

“You assumed that any interaction with me would be superficial?”

“No, I assumed that it would be guarded.”

“Guarded? As in conducted within appropriate professional boundaries?”

“No, guarded as in masked by the thoroughly asexual demeanour that you seem to have adopted.”

Hermione could feel her colour rising. The room was suddenly hot.

“I’m sorry, Professor, if you imagined that the therapists at this retreat would be wearing French Maid’s costumes and handing out sexual favours.”

He snorted quietly and leaned back in his seat, appraising her for more agonising moments before he spoke. “You dress like a farm hand. You hold your shoulders unnaturally high and forward, to avoid exposing your breasts. Even your gait is truncated to prevent a natural hip swing. To qualify as a sex therapist, one would expect you to have to actually qualify as a sexual being.”

Hermione’s mouth actually did hang open then. It was one of the most personally and professionally devastating comments anyone had ever made to her. _Wasn’t it enough to care until your heart ached? To give so much of yourself to a cause that eventually you did dress for practicality alone? To constantly neglect your needs for the sake of others?_

On the verge of tears, she knew that the only thing she could do was to dig into the depths of her compassion for this man. His fixation upon her shortcomings could only come from a place of deep insecurity within himself. He’d been to hell and back, literally. He required the one thing that was most difficult to give, the one thing he was doing his best to reject.

She swallowed hard. “Professor.” Her voice was soft and raspy but she cleared her throat and continued. “I’d like to tell you a story.”

He lifted his chin to peer down his significant nose at her.

“There was once an old man walking along a beach,” she began, “and the sand was covered with starfish. As he walked, he soon encountered a young boy who was picking up the starfish and throwing them back into the water. The old man said to the boy, ‘Why are you bothering? There are so many of them, you can’t possibly make a difference. With that, the boy bent down, picked up another starfish and threw it into the water. ‘I bet I made a difference to that one,’ he said.”

Snape’s frown deepened. “And you think you can make a difference to me? To throw me back into the murky mire that I’ve just crawled out from?” he scoffed. “Do I look like I need saving, Dr Granger?”

She looked into his eyes. “I think _you_ are the boy, Professor Snape,” she said quietly.

He was up in a flash, leaning so far over her desk that his contorted face was only inches from hers. “Don’t . . . presume to know me . . . Dr . . . Granger,” he growled.

Then he was gone.

 

 


	3. A Helping Hand

When she entered the dining room the following morning, Snape was sitting with a cup of black coffee and buttered toast, reading the _Daily Prophet_ like a hotel guest. Now that she had insight into how composed he was capable of appearing and how volatile his inner world was, she was already prepared to relegate any attempt to achieve successful rehabilitation to the ‘not likely unless you’re a complete masochist’ basket.

Trying to open up someone who could expertly thrust and parry, before stabbing you between the ribs with your own argument, required both the mental agility to tap-dance along that sword edge—and the resilience to not go insane whilst doing it. Hermione didn’t know if she was willing or even capable of putting herself through it.

And what of their history together? If she’d only met him for the first time yesterday, would he have been so familiar with her? As she watched him, wandlessly flipping the pages of the _Prophet_ , deliberately flouting the ‘no magic’ rules, she decided that the answer might actually be ‘yes’.

Scooping fruit salad from the communal bowl just across from him, she watched as Lynch walked out of his office and handed Snape a sheet of paper. He scanned the words for all of two seconds before discarding it. Lynch noticed.

“That’s your exercise program for the next six weeks, Professor.” His soft Irish brogue carried to her.

“My _muscle mass_ is more than sufficient for my purposes,” Snape replied without looking up from the _Prophet_.

Lynch stepped closer, hands on hips. “I’m sure it is, Professor. But we don’t want you losing condition while you’re here.”

Snape ignored him.

“Maybe you could come into my office and we could discuss it?”

Snape didn’t respond, wandlessly turning another page.

It happened so quickly that Hermione couldn’t quite work out was happening. Lynch reached out to remove the _Prophet_ from Snape’s hands when suddenly his own hand was pinned to the table under Snape’s grasp. Snape was speaking low and quickly into the older man’s flushed neck as he grimaced down at the table, trying to pull his hand away.

Just as quickly, he was released. It was done so efficiently and quietly that the only tension in the room seemed to be that jumping frantically between the two men. Lynch drew in a deep breath, the red slowly draining from his face. Hermione knew him well enough to know that a challenge like that would usually result in immediate suspension from the program. But for some reason Lynch simply locked his blue eyes on Snape’s black ones before backing away, turning and disappearing into his office, closing the door with a bang.

Then, with a sinking heart, she watched it happen. The altercation hadn’t escaped everyone’s attention. Like a moth to a flame, Katherine Calder, apple in hand, eyes fixed on Snape, approached him.

“Do you mind if I sit, Professor?” she asked in a soft, husky voice.

Snape looked up, surprised. Then his coal black eyes drifted slowly over her—enough to send most people scuttling. But she stood, head tilted slightly toward one shoulder and fruit-laden hands partially obscured by her oversized sleeves, a picture of innocent vulnerability. Absolutely contrived, thought Hermione but, evidently, effective.   

He responded with a small shake of his head and a flick of his wrist toward the seat, watching her with interest as she lowered herself down.

“How’s the coffee here?” she asked, smiling as she bit into the apple.

Hermione could feel her eyes wanting to roll. But she was too concerned by what this interaction might mean. She’d met with the woman only the morning before but was already confident she had her figured out.

Mid-30’s, attractive, single, sexually submissive, attracted to dominant, physically and sexually aggressive males. She’d claimed that such relationships were destroying her self-esteem but, Hermione suspected, and the current behaviour did nothing to negate it, that she’d entered Galladdon with an alternative agenda—to find an individual with matching pathology. Where better to locate someone with the capacity to fulfil her fetishes for sexual degradation than a retreat specialising in psycho-sexual disorders?

It was all there, the not-so-casual lean toward him, sheer material of her shirt gaping a little at the breastbone, the gentle bite of the lower lip, see-sawing of the eyelashes to emphasise her words, soft laughter, not over-zealous, she couldn’t afford to force anything but her transient presence at the precarious first confluence of dominant and submissive energies, then—and this was the clincher—the heel sliding onto the seat, tucked against her, knee pressing into her chest, classic child posturing, fingers pulling at the hair, not curling, that would be too suggestive, just tugging it gently in mock distraction, it was oh so practised. She’d clearly read, or perhaps even written, the book on submissive flirtation.

He must be able to see it.  As Hermione regarded him, she was dismayed to see him engaging with the blatant display—responding in a casual, offhand manner, maintaining dominance and pacing it sufficiently to keep her there.

Hermione could feel something welling inside her. It was that same caustic trickle that had seared her insides only days before, the aching unfairness of it. He had been so utterly hyper-critical of her when she was just trying to conduct her daily business, her work. He’d accused her of having a truncated gait for Merlin’s sake! And yet here he was, perpetuating the most stereotyped of behaviours without question.

It was ridiculous of her to care—after her years of experience. She’d seen so much. Encountered nearly every extreme imaginable. But this absolutely pissed her off! And it made her worry that, with Calder seeking him out, he may indeed be the pathological match for her. Keeping them apart was going to be a priority.

Without even sampling it, she tipped the fruit salad in the bin before discarding the bowl for the House Elves to clear. She had other clients to see.

She didn’t notice his eyes following her as she left the room.

***

“How’s Mollison going?” Hermione murmured, leaning against the activity room wall.

George nodded toward the table where the thin man continued to jerk and twitch. “If you ever wanted to see the Cruciatus in clay. There it is.”

Hermione was fascinated by what she saw. As Shaun Mollison placed his clawed hands at various positions on the lump of clay before him, the curse would seize his body, causing the thick brown pulp to squeeze between his shuddering fingers, extruding a torturous sculpture of the force that had captured his body. It was a clever approach. George might provide some welcome levity for both the staff and clients but he was also extremely intuitive and brilliant to work with.

“And Pomona?” she whispered, not wanting to disturb the woman scrawling furiously with coloured pastels in front of them.

“Her anxiety seems to be darker this time.”

Hermione could see broad overlapping sheaves of greens on the paper—she seemed to have used every shade available. But spiralling up the centre was a dark, swirling mass—thick scouring strokes of blacks and greys.

“It’s controlling her and she’s afraid of it,” said Hermione.

“Fear of fear.” George shook his head as he dug his toe into carpet. “It’s a bugger to kick.”

Pomona was tracing and retracing the dark swirls with blackened fingers, a tangible externalisation of her inner world.

“Now that she’s drawn her anxiety, it might be worthwhile giving it a voice,” suggested Hermione. “Perhaps try her with some writing. Or poetry?”

George shrugged. He was willing to give anything a go.

“She needs to ask her anxiety why it’s here, what it’s afraid of and what it’s protecting her from. She also needs to ask it for alternatives.”

“Will it provide any?” George looked at her.

“No. Fear only knows what it doesn’t want, not what it does want. When you force it to look for options, and it provides none, then you have permission to move on. It can break down the rigidity of her compulsions. Allow her more freedom.”

“I’ve always said it.” George looked at her appreciatively. “That you’re not _even_ a pretty face.”

She only just suppressed a snort. “With those sorts of lines, it really is a wonder the women aren’t flocking.”

“Who says they’re not flocking?” George crossed his arms in mock seriousness.

“Well, whoever’s flocking has got a flocking screw loose,” muttered Hermione.

“That reminds me.” George clicked his fingers. “I’ve got a new one for you.”

Hermione’s lips quirked up in anticipation.

“Two friends are walking down the street and pass a flower shop where one happens to see her boyfriend buying flowers. She sighs and says, ‘Oh, crap, my boyfriend’s buying me flowers again.’ Her friend looks quizzically at her and says, ‘What's the big deal, don't you like getting flowers?’ She says, ‘Oh sure, but he always has expectations after giving me flowers, and I just don't feel like spending the next three days on my back with my legs in the air.’ Her friend says, ‘Don't you have a vase?’

This time Hermione did snort out loud, clamping her hand over her mouth and holding her nose to stop herself from laughing.

George’s eyes were shining. “Sprout liked that one too. Anything with plants in it.”

She hit him lightly on the shoulder before moving off, glad she’d come to see him. He always made her feel better.

In the corner of the room, Dennis Creevey was seated at the old piano, thumbing through a worn book of piano music.

“Do you play?”

He looked up as she spoke, then shook his head. “Colin played. I never learned.” His voice came in short, apologetic bursts.

“Would you like to learn?”

“M . . . Maybe.”

“If you pick out a song, I can teach you to play it,” she said. “As long as it’s easy. I only did up to grade three.”

Dennis ventured a shy smile and nodded hesitantly. “I . . . I think there was a duet. Colin played it. My . . . My mother would accompany. Sometimes. I’ll see if it’s here.”

Hermione nodded encouragingly. She knew she had to be careful with him, his fragile ego was prone to dependency but it also needed to be nurtured. And then there was the loss of Colin. Although it had occurred eight years before, it was still too raw for him. He’d adopted a state of emotional stasis to cope and she wouldn’t be able to go there for a while. The song would be a good bridge when they needed it.

“Dr Granger,” a voice rasped from behind her. Hermione turned to see Sarah wheeling Emily Lenna toward her.

“Is now a good time?” The woman in the wheelchair, her face covered in a thick cloth pressure garment, blonde hair sprouting in sporadic tufts, raised a gloved hand. Her vocal cords had also suffered damage in the fire. Speech rehabilitation would be part of her therapy at Galladdon.

Hermione smiled. “Perfect timing. Will we all go together?”

They both nodded.

***

The path to the river was muddy and strewn with sticks and leaves from the recent winds, making it difficult to push the wheelchair, so Hermione removed the wand from her coat pocket and cast Leviosa, floating both the chair and its cargo just above the ground as they walked. While she carefully picked her way between the minefield of puddles, Hermione noticed that Sarah simply stepped into them, soaking her sandals, seemingly oblivious.

Unlike most people with congenital mutism, who often developed expressive facial features and gesticulations as a means of communication, Sarah’s pale face was impassive, emotionless, pointing to selective mutism as the cause of her silence, a desire to minimise communication. Despite that, Hermione could tell that a strong bond had already developed between the two women. Sarah had taken on the role of caring for Emily’s physical needs, administering her burn salves and assisting her around the Retreat, whilst Emily seemed to be able to understand and communicate on Sarah’s behalf with an impressive level of intuition.

“I sometimes feel like a bubble,” Emily croaked through her scarred vocal cords, gazing up at the vast expanse of milky grey above them. “Floating along on the whim of a breeze. Perhaps one day I’ll just pop and disappear.”

“Is that what you want?” Hermione asked.

“I sometimes wonder if it would be a relief,” Emily replied as the wheels of her chair brushed along tufts of dewy grass. “Not because I want to go. Just that I’m wound so tightly inside. I would be boundless then. Non-existent, but no longer contained.”

“Have you always felt like that?”

Emily shook her head. “Only since the fire.”

“You understand that it’s the post-traumatic stress?” Hermione ducked under a tree branch on the side of the path.

Emily nodded. “Knowing doesn’t always help feeling though. They don’t always connect.”

It was true.

“How are you sleeping?”

“I try not to,” Emily’s sad smile curved within the open circle left by her head garment. “The nightmares are just the worst. The smell. I never ate much meat but the smell of cooking is just too much for me now.”

Hermione drew in a deep breath. She was with her in that moment, imagining the acrid aroma of cooking flesh, her own, lingering in her nostrils.

“I have something that I would like to try with you over the coming weeks,” she said as they rounded a bend, the sound of rushing water becoming instantly louder. “It’s a series of trauma release exercises. They involve inducing a tremor to allow your body to deal with and remove the tension inside you—like a pressure release valve.

“That’s exactly what I need,” nodded Emily. “And a good fucking wouldn’t go astray.”

Hermione burst out laughing and Sarah suddenly turned and smiled at her too.

“I can’t help you with that one,” Hermione said.

“No,” Emily’s voice dropped. “Unfortunately, I don’t think anyone is going to want to help me with that anymore.”

Hermione’s chest tightened. It struck her that even if Emily’s body was healed to the point of use, she may not get to use it for the things she wanted to, needed to. It suddenly felt like a cruelty.

Before she could reply, Sarah suddenly ran forward, stepping off the bank into the river. Hermione lurched after her but Emily grabbed her arm with a gloved fist.

“Leave her. She needs this.”

Despite the doubtless chill, Sarah sank further into the depths of the swirling water, her white dress blooming around her like the translucent bell of a jellyfish. Hermione couldn’t remember beholding a woman so beautiful. Long dark hair cascaded down her shoulders and her red lips parted as she gazed at the sky with eyes of the same pale grey.

“Sometimes you don’t need words,” murmured Emily.

***

Hermione was exhausted. She couldn’t remember such an emotionally harrowing start to a program. _Was it the clients? Or had she just been doing this for too long?_

Picking up a buttered dinner roll, she placed it on the edge of her plate. She should be hungry but she was almost too tired to eat. Scanning the rest of the spread for something that wouldn’t sit like a stone in her stomach, she stepped forward and knocked into someone. Before she’d even registered who it was, he had caught the bread roll that toppled from her plate and delicately placed it back on the edge before sucking butter from his finger. It wasn’t suggestive. Just normal. Unassuming.

Hermione stared at the back of his black coat as it stretched and then wrinkled with his lean to scoop carrots onto his plate. For some reason the ordinariness of his actions jolted her. She’d only ever registered his extremes. He’d become almost a caricature within her mind, the stylised black accoutrements adding to the illusion. Yet here he was, close enough to touch. Just a person. A man. Trying to live. She knew then that she would help him. At least she would have a bloody good go.

 

 


	4. All in Hand

Hermione was prepared when he entered her office this time, already positioning herself in one of the corner chairs.

“Please take a seat, Professor,” she said, gesturing to the chair opposite.

“I’d prefer to stand,” he responded, making his way over to the tall window beside her and looking out over the sea of trees, arms crossed.

Hermione had primed herself, expecting him to be difficult. She had rehearsed a series of mental exercises that allowed her to let go of any assumptions or expectations about his behaviour. Hopefully it would allow her to stay in the moment and not get distracted.

“How are you finding your time at the Retreat?” she asked.

He snorted softly, giving a small shake of his head as he addressed the window. “’The Retreat’. Most appropriate don’t you think?” She could hear the derision in his voice. “To regress or acquiesce? Which is it? Which do you want from me?”

“We don’t want either.”

“You know why I’m here, don’t you?” He threw a brief glance over his shoulder before returning to stare at the window.

“I understand that the Hogwarts board insisted upon a complete psychiatric assessment before you were allowed to return.”

“Allowed to return.” He shook his head again and simply stared.

Hermione remained quiet, looking up at him in side profile. She could see the window reflected in his eyes. They were absolutely still. Black marbles. He wasn’t seeing. He was thinking. Or perhaps remembering.

“Do you want to return?”

Snape sighed and turned toward her. “What are you doing for Mollison?”

Despite her preparation, Hermione was already thrown.

“Shaun Mollison?”

“Yes.”

“Mr Lynch has a physical therapy program planned for him.”

“Is that all?”

“Until we know more.”

“You should know more,” he replied angrily.

Hermione was finding it difficult to talk to him while he was looming over her but she couldn’t stand up now without appearing combative. She wished she’d chosen the desk seats from the start.

“What should we know?” She kept her voice even, non-accusatory.

“Anyone worth their salt would be aware that the Cruciatus wants to leave the body. It doesn’t stay of its own accord. Mollison is holding on to it.”

Hermione stared at him blankly. “Why?”

“Why do you think?” His voice rose. “To punish himself.”

Hermione had seen a handful of chronic Cruciatus cases and none had ever been satisfactorily treated. For some reason she’d never thought of it being purposefully retained. None of them had.

“Do you know why he’s punishing himself?” she ventured.

“No. That would be your job.”

Hermione jotted down some notes on her paper.

“What did you say to Lynch yesterday at breakfast?” She twisted in her seat so that she was facing him, her knees almost touching his leg.

Severus lifted his chin as he looked out the window but didn’t respond.

She waited for him, but it was clear that he could wait just as long.

“You seem to be developing some friendships,” she commented. “I noticed you having a conversation with Katherine Calder.”

“You ‘noticed’ did you?”

Her neck was starting to ache from craning to look up at him.

“She seemed to be quite taken with you. Perhaps you didn’t notice.”

“Dr Granger, that is most unbecoming of you.” He peered down his nose at her. “Such transparent jealousy. What would Mr Lynch say?”

Hermione caught the retaliation in her throat. _Breathe. Breathe._

“I’d like to try an approach with you called Voice Dialogue.”

Snape turned back to the window.

“It’s about exploring the multiple selves. Allowing them to speak. Understanding how they see the world and control your behaviour.”

“Trying to find ‘Starfish Boy’ are you?” He stared out the window. She noticed that his trademark smirks and sneers were virtually absent. Muted affect. The voice dialogue therapy might help tap into that.

“I’m trying to understand you and I want to help you to understand yourself. But you are going to have to be more open with me.”

“And tell you if I want to fuck Katherine Calder?” He turned to her.

“Is that what you want?”

“You’re going to have to be more open with me,” he responded, ignoring her question. “Tell me.” He ran his fingertips over his chin. “Have you deliberately chosen to deny your sexuality for the purposes of treating the likes of Master Oedipus?”

“Master Oedipus?”

“Creevey.”

Hermione knew she was being drawn into a Snape trap. But, equally, she was aware that he was testing her. Working out if he could trust her.

“Dennis has elements of what would be called the Oedipus Complex if you were a Freudian. I like to believe we can consider people’s motivations and behaviours as being a more complex amalgamation of childhood and adult experiences.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

She blinked resignedly. He was determined to make this difficult. “Clients will sometimes develop dependencies—attachments to their therapists. They will also project. Someone like Dennis may view me as someone to nurture him because it’s my job to care about him. With his current sexual proclivities, there is a chance that he may project his sexual fantasies onto me. The answer is ‘yes’. It is easier for everyone if I dress like this.”

Snape had been watching her with interest throughout. He continued to appraise her well beyond the end of her speech.

“In the spirit of sharing.” He arched a dark eyebrow. “I’ll inform you that I haven’t yet decided whether I’ll fuck Calder.”

“It’s against the rules.”

Snape tipped his head to the side. “Please don’t pretend that the rules matter. Lynch demonstrated that this morning.”

“Tell me what you said to him?”

“You’ll have to ask him.”

“Why?”

“Because it was about you.”

***

“I’m taking them to the lookout this morning,” Lynch announced at their breakfast meeting two days later.

“Are they all going?” asked George as he wet a sponge to wipe a stream of spilt coffee from his shirt.

“There are a few exceptions but I’ve approved those.”

Lynch had been unusually terse the past few days and they were all trying to engage with him as little as possible. Normally they would have asked for a list of the exemptions but his current demeanour meant that they would simply wait and see.

When Hermione had asked him the day before about his altercation with Snape, he’d replied that Snape had suggested his own exercise routine for the duration of his stay. It was a blatant lie but, again, she was unwilling to push him.

“Do we have any developments to discuss?” Lynch scanned the group.

“Creevey is learning to read music,” said George. “He’s picking it up quickly and he seems to be enjoying it. ‘Mione has been helping.”

“Good,” Lynch said abruptly. “Anything else?”

“I didn’t get anywhere with Sarah at my last session. Not a word.” Simone Ellory was dissecting a piece of toast with her fingers and popping small pieces into her mouth. “But I think that Snape would benefit from some massage therapy.”

Hermione frowned. “Shouldn’t Lynch be deciding upon which clients he’s going to administer physical therapy to?”

“With . . . me,” Ellory corrected, glaring over her glasses.

“And since when were you a massage therapist?” demanded Hermione.

“I am, actually, a qualified massage therapist, I just choose to only use it on the cases that I believe are in genuine need. And I think, with the tension that Snape carries in his shoulders and hips, I would like to try it with him.”

 _Of course you would_.

Lynch looked conflicted. He was normally so decisive. Now he sat and looked between the two of them.

“Not at the moment,” he said finally. “There’s something else that needs to be sorted out first.”

Ellory pulled a face as if she had just popped a piece of buttered turd into her mouth.

Hermione let out a quiet sigh of relief. And then wondered why.

***

Hermione spent the rest of the morning in her office reading books and articles on the Cruciatus curse. She was now confident that Snape’s suggestion that Mollison was deliberately holding onto it was founded but she also felt, from her reading, that there might be another element to it. Stretching back in her chair, she decided to check if either Snape or Mollison had remained behind. She could question Snape more about his observations or make a time to meet with Mollison to discuss potential therapeutic approaches.

The dining room was empty as she strode through on the way to their room. About to knock on the closed door, she heard a strange sound that made her hand freeze. There were unusual rhythmic squeaking and grunting noises coming from behind the door. _Oh Shit!_

Putting her fingers over her lips, she glanced around, wondering what to do. She couldn’t leave. She needed to know what was going on. Pulling her wand, she decided to cast a transparency spell that, in the vicinity of her wand tip, allowed her to view a small one-way window into the room.

Peering through the aperture, Hermione saw that it was completely dark inside apart from two lanterns hanging on one wall. But it wasn’t just the poor lighting that confused her. The people inside, and what they were doing, was almost incomprehensible. The squeaking sound seemed to be coming from a complicated series of pulleys rigged up around the walls and ceiling with ropes trailing through them. The ropes were being used to suspend someone, a woman, from the ceiling. She was completely naked and her ankles and wrists were bound, maximally spreading her open. And standing before her, naked except for a mask, was a man. He held the other ends of the ropes wrapped around his forearms, and each time he pulled on them, the woman’s legs and arms were wrenched further apart as she slammed down onto his erect cock. Her groans were muffled by the ball-gag stretching her mouth. Down her cheeks ran rivulets of saliva, dripping onto the ground with each thrust.

The man, whom she now realised wore a Dementor mask, was grunting each time he yanked the ropes and pounded into her.

Despite her contorted face and tortured body, Hermione could tell that the woman was Katherine Calder. And, despite the mask, she knew that the man who was pulling the ropes faster and faster as he geared up to come would be . . .

“Alohomora!” Hermione threw open the door and flew in. The man instantly released the ropes, allowing the woman to fall from his cock onto the ground. Struggling in the tangle of ropes, the woman pulled frantically at the ball gag, trying to remove it.

“Ms Calder,” Hermione snarled. “I see that you’ve found a way to boost your self-esteem?”

“And you.” She turned to the man. “Clearly you’ve finally worked out what you really want.”

He stood, looking at her, glistening cock rapidly wilting under her withering gaze.

“Take it off,” Hermione hissed through gritted teeth.

Slowly he reached up and pulled off the mask.

“Mr Jaeger!”

***

“They both need to go.” Hermione paced the staffroom in short, angry strides, arms folded across her chest.

“I thought you said you were making progress with Jaeger,” replied Lynch, his fingers combing through his hair as he tried to think.

“Clearly not,” Hermione replied.

“Calder’s your domain isn’t she?” Ellory pointed out. “Sexual dysfunction? One for the ‘too hard’ basket is she?”

Hermione whirled around. “The woman didn’t come here for treatment, she came looking for someone to degrade her. And she found it.”

“Degrade?” Ellory blinked. “Perhaps you should ask her if she found it degrading or erotic before you apply your own judgements.”

Hermione didn’t need a lesson on sexuality from the likes of Ellory.

“If they don’t go. Then I’m going,” she said suddenly.

George stood up. “Perhaps we should head out for some fresh air?”

“I don’t need fresh air,” she snapped. “It’s pretty simple.”

Lynch sighed, shaking his head. “I’ll tell them to pack their bags.”

“That’s it, is it?” sneered Ellory. “Little Miss ‘I’m a sex therapist but can’t accept anyone’s fetishes if they are alternative to mine’, which probably includes everything, has a tantrum and everyone bends over backwards to appease her?”

“Simone, don’t start,” Lynch warned her.

“What if I threatened to leave?” Ellory called after Lynch as he strode from the room.

“Don’t let me stop you.” Hermione muttered, before heading after him.

 

 


	5. Give a Hand

Hermione’s hair wouldn’t behave itself. After not sleeping well, it had decided to degenerate into a frizzy nuisance as she tried to secure it into a, no doubt sexless, ponytail. Huffing, she hurriedly rubbed moisturiser into her face. She found him creeping into her thoughts more and more. Last night he’d haunted her dreams, melding with the Dementor mask in a debauched psycho-sexual encounter that she had no intention of trying to interpret.

The knots in her stomach hadn’t subsided. _Had she made a mistake? Why had she insisted upon the departure of Jaeger and Calder? Why hadn’t she considered other options?_ She no longer understood her own actions, her own motivations. It was like she didn’t know herself from one day to the next. The Hermione of yesterday was a stranger to her. She couldn’t ever remember feeling so disconnected.

George’s suggestion of a walk had been a good one and she wished she’d taken up his offer earlier instead of presenting Lynch with an ultimatum. It was ridiculous. Immature. Even if it _had_ worked. Ellory was right, she had been throwing a tantrum. _Where was the considered, level-headed, dependable Hermione of only weeks before?_ She needed to make a concerted effort to reconnect with her—for the sake of her clients if nothing else.

***

The activities room was abuzz when she entered. Dennis had made a huge leap in his piano playing and it was actually almost pleasant to listen to. Mollison was lying on a pair of bright blue mats and Lynch was leaning over him, helping him to stretch. Sprout and Ellory were playing cards, while George and Emily sat at a table in the corner of the room. It was as if both staff and clients were determined not to let the departure of a quarter of their number dampen their enthusiasm.

Hermione made her way over to where Emily seemed to be convulsing with wheezy laughter.

“You’re dangerous,” Emily croaked to George. “If I laugh any more I might just keel over.”

“I promise you this is the best speech rehabilitation material I have.” He raised both hands innocently.

Hermione smiled down at them. “What does he have you saying?” she asked Emily.

“Well,” she took a deep breath and spoke slowly. “The first one is ‘I'm not a pheasant plucker, I'm a pheasant pluckers son. And I'm only plucking pheasants 'till the pheasant plucker comes.’

George nodded. “Dr Granger will verify that there is nothing better than a ‘pheasant plucker’ for therapy.”

“Don’t trust him,” Hermione said.

“True,” George admitted. “I have been accused on more than one occasion of being a cunning linguist.”

Emily burst into laughter again and Hermione grinned.

“I just wanted to apologise for yesterday.” Hermione leaned toward him slightly. “I wasn’t feeling myself.”

“You don’t have to apologise to me for not feeling yourself, Dr Granger,” he said affably. “Sometimes I go for a whole day without feeling myself.” 

Emily was wheezing again and Hermione nodded her appreciation that he’d forgiven her.

Pulling on her coat, she stepped out into the chill autumn air. The clean, fresh bite of it instantly lifted her spirits. Sucking in deep lungfuls, she strode through crunchy drifts of leaves toward the forest.

The air amongst the bare trunks was quiet and still, her footsteps the only sound apart from the occasional rustle of birds and small animals in the undergrowth. Now that her head was clearer, she allowed herself to think about something that she’d been avoiding.

She’d naturally assumed, the previous day, that Jaeger was Snape. Even when she’d discovered that he wasn’t, had her thoughts already been tainted? Was that one of the reasons she’d wanted, particularly Calder, gone?

If it were true, the question was ‘Why?’ She had no responsibility for, or ownership over, what Snape did.

Her breath puffed out in short bursts as she climbed the slippery path to the crest of a small hill. Here the view encompassed an undulating tapestry of trees stretching down to the river. She could either continue up the hill to the rocky lookout or head down a second path, deeper into the forest. The sun had cracked through the clouds, turning the mountains of leaves around her golden. The forest wouldn’t be too dark. She decided to continue down the lower track.

The trees here were more densely packed and the sounds seemed increasingly muffled, like she were moving through some sort of vacuum. There were fewer birds flitting around but she could hear one calling up ahead. This part of the forest was mainly pine trees and the needles felt soft and spongy underfoot. The fresh pine scent reamed her nasal passages. It was delicious. Like a gift she didn’t quite deserve.

The calls became louder. But they had changed into more of a high-pitched mewling. Peering ahead through the gloom, she caught sight of something white amongst the trees. Bigger than a bird. As she approached, she realised that it was a person. No, two people.

_Oh fuck!_

With a gasp she ducked behind a nearby tree. Heart thudding in her chest, she peeked out to check that she had seen correctly.

The person was Sarah—wearing the same white dress from the river but this time she was leaning with her back against a tree, her face tilted up toward the branches. And kneeling in front of her, between her legs, was a figure dressed all in black. This time there was no mistake. It was Snape.

Sarah was clutching at the trunk of the tree with both small hands and her mouth was hanging open, the keening noise was coming from her. Snape had the skirt of her dress balled in one fist, pinned above her waist. One of her creamy thighs was hooked over his shoulder, contrasting starkly against the black of his coat. And his face was buried in her pussy.

Hermione watched as his head moved rhythmically, like a cat grooming. Sarah’s breaths were growing ragged and Hermione saw Snape’s free hand delve up under her skirt. As Sarah suddenly arched against the tree, it was clear where his fingers had been inserted. Then his shoulder began to pump in time with his head movements. Sarah’s breasts were heaving as she reached forward to clutch at his hair, pulling him into her.

Instead, he released her skirt from his fist and grabbed her hand, pushing it back to the rough bark of the tree, holding her palm against it.

His movements began to speed up and her moaning rose in pitch. He pushed his face into her and started shaking his head from side to side as his shoulder thrust in with greater force.

“Uunnnhhhh,” she cried, rolling her head against the tree. “Uhhhhh Gods!”

Then she convulsed and shrieked and arched into him, his face riding the waves of her orgasm. His head and hand followed the bucking of her pussy, sustaining her with his tongue and fingers.

“Oh . . . oh . . . oh.” She panted. Vocalising with each breath. As if, now that she had found her voice, she didn’t want to let it go.

Hermione was breathing in time with her. She’d waited too long. She should have stopped them. _Why? Because it was the same wasn’t it? The same as Jaeger and Calder. Wasn’t it all . . . the same?_ Hermione squeezed her eyes closed. She couldn’t think straight. She was so tired and so . . . she realised then that her crotch was sopping. _What was wrong with her?_

Snape was withdrawing. Pulling back from his feasting. She didn’t want to see him, his face wet with her juices like some sort of sexual vampire.

Instead she turned. And ran.

***

“You wanted to see me?”

His deep voice jolted her even though she’d been expecting him.

She didn’t turn from her position at the window. “Yes, close the door.”

Not ready to look at him, she remained at the window.

“Can you give me one good reason why you shouldn’t be sent from this place right now?” Her voice was quiet.

He didn’t answer.

Her arms locked across her chest as she stared beyond the glass. If she looked hard enough she could even see the trees. The pine trees where they . . .

Whirling around, she glared at him. “Answer me.”

He lifted an eyebrow in response. “I can’t even give you a good reason why I was sent here in the first place.”

Hermione’s finger tapped against her arm as she tried to maintain control.

“I . . . saw . . . you.”

“I know.”

The finger tapped more furiously.

“What were you doing?”

“I thought that would have been quite obvious,” he responded drily.

Hermione could feel the air sticking to her lungs. She was having to push it out.

“Why were you having sex with a mute woman? A woman sent here to overcome what is likely to have been severe psychological trauma?”

“She’s not a mute woman. That’s the point I was making.”

“The point?” Hermione’s face contorted with incredulity. “You were making a point?”

Severus sighed and leaned back in his seat. “I knew what she needed.”

“Oral sex?”

He shook his head in annoyance. “She needed grounding. And hence the tree. She needed to connect to it. The cunnilingus was to help her reconnect with her body.”

Hermione was having trouble processing what he was saying.

“And how could you be so confident you knew ‘what she needed’?” Hermione demanded.

“Because I’m not like you.”

“What?” Hermione almost choked, taking a step toward him.

“I have a wealth of sexual experience to draw from,” he said.

“And how do you know I don’t?” Hermione could feel the flush rolling across her skin like a fever.

“You sent Calder and Jaeger away. You didn’t understand them. You might be sympathetic toward your clients but you can’t be empathetic. Not completely. Because you have absolutely no idea what it feels like to be them.”

Hermione’s throat was closing over. She was going to be sick.

“You’re angry at me because you wished it was you against that tree.”

The unwelcome sensation of him shaking his tongue inside her pussy made her core spasm.

“But you don’t need that. You need something . . . very . . . different.”

His words hung in the air between them like the dark mark after Morsmordre.

Chest heaving, she clenched her teeth before hissing, “Get . . . out.”

***

As soon as he’d gone, she ran into her adjoining bedroom, threw open the ensuite door and leaned over the toilet bowl, dry retching. The convulsions wracked her for minutes before they turned into sobs. He was right. She had sent Calder away because she didn’t understand her. Worse than that, she despised her submissive behaviour. How could she successfully rehabilitate people that she had no way of relating to? She had all the theoretical knowledge but virtually no experiential understanding—not for the issues she was trying to treat.

Sliding down the tiles, she leaned against the bathroom wall, her cheek welcoming the bite of the cool surface. He might see a lot, he might even have more knowledge about therapy than the rest of them put together, but he had also broken the rules. It was only fair to Calder and Jaeger that Snape and Sarah be sent home too. For some reason that thought brought a fresh wave of sobs. When she’d run out of tears, she made the decision to inform Lynch about what had happened. And to do it quickly, before she changed her mind.

On shaky legs, she scooped water from the basin onto her blotchy face. She looked like hell, but dressing like a farm hand probably meant there weren’t particularly high expectations of her appearance.

Towelling her face, she took a final look in the mirror and let out a long breath. Who was that woman glaring back at her? Where had the competent professional gone? Did she ever exist? Would she ever return?

Snatching open the door, she left her office looking for Lynch. The distant sound of Dennis still playing the piano reached her ears. A duet. George must be playing the other part. She would ask him were Lynch was. When she opened the door, she halted. Seated next to Dennis on the piano stool wasn’t George, it was Snape—he was playing the other part to the duet. One-handed, she could tell he was utterly proficient but holding back to keep in time with Dennis. He was watching the young man’s hands carefully to make sure he kept a steady rhythm that wouldn’t shake his confidence.

When Dennis looked up at Snape with his boyish grin, Snape smiled back—open, encouraging. Hermione shook her head and clamped her hand over her mouth. It was too much. If Snape was so desperate to be the ‘Starfish Boy’ then she would damn well let him. And he could start with her.

 

 


	6. Right Hand Man

“I have to tell you something.” Hermione was jolted from her thoughts by the light touch on her arm.

Looking up, she saw Emily, her scarred lips curled into a beautiful smile. “Dr Granger. You won’t believe this. It’s Sarah. I don’t know what happened to her but, this morning, she actually said something. She spoke!” She shook her head in wonder. “She said ‘good morning’, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Just like that. Totally, out of the blue. I just couldn’t believe it!”

"That is fantastic news!" Hermione gently grasped her gloved hand.

She was genuinely moved by the joy on Emily’s face and the fact that Sarah seemed to have made a sustained improvement. She didn’t want to think any more of the ‘miraculous’ methods behind her recovery but the good news was welcome considering the turmoil of the previous days.

But then she noticed Emily’s eyes, sunken and bloodshot.

“Are you sleeping?” she asked quietly, leaning toward her wheelchair.

Emily shook her head. “I just can’t.”

“We’re going to start your trauma release therapy tomorrow,” Hermione stated firmly. “You need to sleep, otherwise it’s going to impact both your physical and mental recovery.”

Emily nodded. “I know. I just can’t let sleep take me. Not until I’m safe. But at least my voice seems to be getting stronger. I never knew laughing could help so much.”

“Owls!” One of the house elves called and suddenly a cacophony of flapping filled the dining room as feathered creatures entered through every open door and window, raining envelopes, packages and parchments down onto laps and plates.

A small parcel landed in Emily’s hands and her face broke into a smile. “My father,” she exclaimed excitedly as she tore off the paper to reveal the large golden face of a sunflower. “This is a good day,” she smiled at Hermione, before wheeling herself away.

Hermione noticed that Lynch had also received some packages and was carefully tearing them open.

“Someone’s popular,” she remarked, leaning over her tea cup to see what he’d received.

“Birthday presents.” He gave a rare grin. Inside one was a photograph of a woman who was waving and blowing kisses. Hermione recognised it to be his wife who had visited the Retreat on a few occasions. The other gift was a thick knitted hat.

“You’re going to need that now you’re getting a bit thin on top,” remarked Hermione.

“You’ll keep!” he growled, swiping at her with it.

She grinned and stood up, glad that he finally seemed to be in a better mood.

***

Hermione met Snape in a clearing called ‘the bath’, a short walk from the Retreat. It was so named because of the ornate bird bath situated on a stone mandala in the centre and the fact that, in the summer, it was often bathed in warm pools of sunlight. Today, however, weary leaves drifted like snowflakes from the surrounding trees, spotting the ground around the dark form of Snape who sat, head bowed, on one of the wooden benches.

He looked up as she sloshed through the puddles of leaves. She hadn’t wanted to interrupt him in deep contemplation but was surprised, herself, to see that he held a small lump of wood in his hands and appeared to be carving it, wandlessly, with small strokes of his fingers.

“Professor,” she nodded, taking a seat beside him.

He nodded in return before continuing to flick his fingers this way and that, shaving thin curling strips from the surface.

“Thank you for meeting with me.” She pulled her scarf tighter around her neck. “I didn’t realise it was so cold.”

“One gets used to the cold after decades of living in a Dungeon.”

Hermione was surprised by his reference to Hogwarts. It wasn’t a particularly happy memory of the place but perhaps it was positive that he was even willing to broach the subject.

Hermione smiled, knowing that it wasn’t time to push that conversation any further.

“I actually wanted to talk to you about the research I’ve been conducting on the Cruciatus. I’m now confident that your appraisal of Mr Mollison’s condition is accurate. But there was an additional element that I wanted your opinion on.”

Snape looked up from his carving. “Do you usually consult patients on matters relating to other patients?”

Hermione blinked, it was a valid question.

“Not normally, no. But since you were the one to put forward this hypothesis, I considered it might be appropriate to gauge whether you had any further thoughts on my latest reading.”

Snape sighed. “This isn’t a psychotherapists conference. Please stop talking to me like it is,” he snapped. “Ask your question.”

Hermione paused, allowing his words to wash over, and not into, her. She was determined not to be riled up by him again.

She drew a deep breath. “It’s been suggested that chronic Cruciatus may be caused by abnormal wiring of the brain—errant circuits that perpetuate curse conduction through the muscles. What do you think?”

Snape’s hands had stopped moving and he was staring at the ground a couple of feet in front of him, obviously thinking.

She noticed that his lips and eyebrows twitched a little as he focused. She waited for him to respond.

After a number of minutes he sat up straight and turned towards her. “It’s a valid hypothesis. The question is how to treat it? I would consider employing something equivalent to a mirror-box.”

Hermione frowned. She was familiar with the mirror-box that was sometimes used for stroke rehabilitation. The patient’s affected arm would be placed behind a mirror. When they moved their uninjured arm, the reflection in the mirror made the brain think that the affected arm could move freely. Multiple sessions would enable the brain to rewire, improving movement in the injured limb. But she was struggling to apply this concept to Mollison.

“Can you explain further?”

He nodded quickly, placing the piece of wood in his lap. “I would envisage a full length mirror.” He used his hands to demonstrate. “An image of Mollison, unaffected by the curse, perhaps an earlier photograph, could be superimposed upon it. When he stands in front of the mirror and the Cruciatus hits him, he will see his body projection remaining still. The visual disconnect between his sensations and his reflection may help.”

Hermione stared at him. It really was a brilliant idea. She hadn’t been particularly surprised to discover that he knew Freudian principles, but this was really delving into modern neuroscience, brain remodelling and neuroplasticity. Obviously, he hadn’t spent the intervening years simply doing Wizarding crosswords.

His telling was also earnest, verging on enthusiastic. She’d never seen him like that, even when she was a student. He clearly enjoyed thinking about solutions to complex problems.

“It’s a good idea,” she said, unwilling to ruin the moment with what he might consider sycophantic gushing. “Any thoughts on what incantations might make it possible?”

“I’ll have to consider it more,” he said, picking up the carving and turning away from her again. “Get my wand back to me and I’ll trial a few approaches. Mollison should ask his family to owl some photos of him, similar to how he looks now, and they need to be front on.”

“Yes. I’ll ask him today.”

He nodded and continued carving.

Hermione took a deep breath and asked her next question in a rush. “Are you planning to continue sexual relations with Sarah?”

He halted for a moment. “Is she still speaking?”

“Yes, I understand she spoke to Emily today.”

“Then I see no reason to,” he responded dispassionately.

Hermione considered his answer. “She is extremely beautiful.”

“True.”

“Didn’t you gain any sexual gratification from the experience?”

He paused for a moment. “I obtained gratification,” he said.

“Sexual?”

“Not especially. Genuine sexual gratification requires more than engaging with physical beauty.”

Hermione was more than aware of that, she just wasn’t sure she'd expected it from Snape, especially after witnessing his antics in the pine forest.

“What if she forms an attachment to you?”

He sniffed. “Then I will simply dress like a farm hand. That seems to be a more than effective approach to deflect interest.”

Hermione held in a sigh of exasperation. She’d been punishing herself with the sexless farm-hand jibes enough without requiring his further contributions. Her question about Sarah’s potential attachment was also a serious one but Hermione suspected that she wasn’t going to extract another answer from him. There was also something else she wished to ask and didn’t want to risk him shutting down. Her breathing quickened as she thought about the best approach. Deciding that there was no comfortable way to broach the subject, she just blurted it out.

“You said I needed something . . . different. Yesterday. What did you mean?”

Snape’s eyebrows lifted momentarily as his hands stilled. “And so we come to the real purpose of this meeting.”

Hermione shook her head. "That’s not true Professor, I was determined to progress Mr Mollison’s therapy."

Snape didn’t respond. She looked out, watching the sinuous drop of leaves, wondering if it would be best for both of them if she just left.

“It would not be unusual for a therapist to benefit from therapy,” he said finally.

Hermione was well aware of the need for continuous debriefing and occasional rehabilitation of therapists. It was extremely difficult to spend an entire life listening to other people’s problems without taking them on.

“Were you talking about therapy?”

“Of sorts.”

“And what would this entail for me.”

Snape flicked his fingers to and fro, fine wood shavings falling between his knees.

“It would entail you giving up control.”

Hermine’s heart was physically jolted by the words. She was never more uncomfortable than when she felt control slipping away from her, even transiently. Her head suddenly felt fuzzy and the light around them seemed to change, turning a sickly yellow.

“I’m not sure that would be of benefit to me, Professor,” she said quietly.

He exhaled loudly through his nose. “And that terror in your voice isn’t enough to convince you that it would?”

Hermione swallowed and her fingers curled into her knots of her scarf. When the world slipped, as it did now, she needed the reassurance of something tangible. She knew well the value of meeting fear head on. Recent events had also made her very much aware that her world was far smaller than it should be and seemingly shrinking with each successive year in the relative isolation of the Retreat. Her critical judgements of herself, and even her clients, were not only unhelpful, they were verging on improper. The narrower her world got, the less diverse the characteristics she could accept into it. He was offering her a chance to break free of those bonds, her debilitating biases. _But at what cost?_

“Would it be sexual?”

“I believe that would be the most effective course of action at this point in time.”

Hermione gripped the scarf even tighter.

“What if I didn’t like what was happening? Would you stop?”

“No.”

Hermione jumped a little at his terse response.

“What you think you want and what your body wants are at complete odds,” he said. “You have a natural tendency to self-deprivation. The process would need to circumvent this. You will have an opportunity to tell me after each encounter whether you are willing to continue. But I won’t stop in the middle of a session. Your desires will be changing moment by moment, anyway. The ultimate purpose of each interaction is for you to see it through to the end, to take the meaning and understand the lesson.”

“What if I were in pain?”

“It would never be more than you could bear. You would learn to consider it a means to an end, a portal to a deeper understanding. I would be there to guide you through it.”

Hermione’s fear manifested in tremulous steamy breaths that escaped her mouth and floated on the still air.

She suddenly shook her head. “It would be most inappropriate.”

After a pause, he spoke, “I have no intention of attempting to convince you. I simply offer it as an antidote to your current state. You are in the process of realising that well-meaning, earnest intent doesn’t equate with genuine professional competency. And when that is fully realised, and you have done nothing to counter it, you will leave the profession. It strikes me that you have too much natural ability and have already sacrificed more than enough to be willing to let that occur.”

His penetrating insight into her circumstances was extremely disconcerting but also, in some small way, comforting.

“How would you characterise this relationship?” She frowned into her scarf.

“I would call it a professional arrangement.”

“Professional?”

“I would claim expertise in what I can bring to the arrangement,” he said simply, his fingers continuing to whittle away.

Hermione rubbed her hand over her face, almost unable to believe that she was considering his offer. “I would need to trust you.”

“Of course.”

She drew in a shaky breath. “What did you say to Lynch?”

Snape turned to her, studying her face with his dark unwavering gaze before responding.

“I told him that you were looking to leave. That you had some issues. I said that if he left me to my own devices, I would do what I could to help you through it. That it might enable you to stay.”

“What?” Hermione leapt up. “But that’s not true. I wasn’t going to leave.”

“How many times have you considered leaving in the past few days?” He sat back and crossed his arms.

“Is that what you've been up to? Legilimency?”

“Of course not. Answer my question.”

The answer, of course, was dozens. She’d considered leaving dozens of times.

“Why would it matter if I left? He could easily find someone to replace me.” She stood over him.

Snape rolled his eyes. “Come on. You’re not that dense.”

“Dense?”

He sighed and pursed his lips.

Hermione shook her head in confusion.

“The man’s obviously in love with you,” he growled. “Probably has been for years.”

“What?!” Hermione shrieked. “But . . . he’s married!”

Snape’s eyebrows shot up. “Since when has that mattered?”

Clutching her head, Hermione turned away from him. She was hyperventilating. The world twisted and warped around her like a kaleidoscope.

“What did he think you were going to do to persuade me?”

“Who knows,” Snape shrugged.

“Talk to me?”

Snape was silent.

“Did he think you were going to have sex with me?” Hermione spun around to face him.

“Maybe.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Hermione shook her head. “If what you say is true, why would he be willing to let you have sex with me?”

“Because, my naïve, innocent child,” He leaned toward her, “he is clearly so in love with you that he would rather let another man fuck you than lose you altogether.”

The air was heavy, leaden.

“Fuck,” Hermione suddenly muttered into her hands.

“Do I really need to explain these things to you?” A deep frown had captured Snape’s face.

Hermione slowly sank back onto the bench. “I’m . . . I’m able to deal with such things when they relate to someone else but I’m not so good when they relate to me.

“Obviously.”

Either Snape had Lynch all wrong or she had missed, or perhaps even denied, the clues that might have been evident for years. If so, it was a serious shortcoming, both personally and professionally. Snape was right, she would leave the profession if she couldn’t become the therapist she needed to be. And with that, she decided.

“I want you to help me . . . to be better,” she said in a small voice.

Snape nodded curtly and stood, ready to leave.

“Wait! When do we . . . start?”

“That won’t be known to you. Otherwise you’re liable to subvert or manipulate the situation. It will start when I decide that it’s time. It will also end at my discretion.”

Hermione’s heart was thundering, her breath coming in short gasps.

Snape walked away.

“Professor?”

He halted, his back to her.

“Why are you doing this?”

He paused. “Consider it an academic interest.”

Then he strode off, tossing something into the bird bath as he passed.

Hermione rose, feeling hollow to the core. _What was it that she’d just agreed to?_

As she approached the bird bath she saw it, floating on the surface, a beautifully intricate wooden carving. A butterfly.

 _Transformation_.

***

Hermione watched the toothpaste as it swirled sluggishly down the plughole. It blurred as her exhausted vision tried to focus. She’d stayed up too late reading. She should have just . . .

Something moved behind her. Before she could turn, she was spun around and slammed against the tiles, her toothbrush clattering to the ground. A hard palm was pressed over her mouth, crushing her lips.

“Now . . . it begins.” His honeyed baritone slipped into her ear, warm tingling breath trailing lightly across her skin.

She grunted loudly, trying to yell.

“Shhhhhh.” He drew the sound out until she’d stopped struggling.

“You will now honour our agreement.” His voice remained low, calm. “You will not speak unless I give permission. Do you understand?”

He was pressing against her so tightly that she was having trouble drawing breath. Even her eventual nod was simply a brief smear of her forehead against the tiles.

“Good.”

She felt the hard weight of him lift slightly from her shoulders as he slid his palm from her face, but his hips continued to pin her to the wall.

His warm breath ghosted down her neck as slowly, inexorably, both hands slipped down the outside of her dressing gown to rest upon her thighs, before deviating inwards, curling around until he was cupping each inner thigh, just below her labia, bracing her with his strong fingers.

“You have made a habit of denying your desires. Your needs,” he murmured, his larynx tickling the side of her neck. “Now you will be forced to face them. To listen to and acknowledge them.”

His fingers tightened further, pulling her lips apart.

“You will hear nothing apart from yourself. It is only within this silence that you might finally listen.”

Then all noise was shut out—the running water at the sink, the rustle of his movements behind her, and his voice. All she could hear were the stark, raspy pants of her own ragged breathing. And, moments later, a moan, deep and unfamiliar. Hers.

One of his hands had pulled open the tie on her gown and slipped up to her breast, squeezing her nipple—extruding it with firm precision from areola to tip, while the other slid downwards, a long finger inserting, without hesitation, between the lips of her sex.

“Oh, Merliiiiiin!” Her rising voice echoed its brassy reverberation back into her face.

With disconcerting dexterity, his hand continued to palm her breast whilst manipulating her hardening bud with his fingertips. This, in concert with the thumb and fingers that were plucking and rolling the shaft of her clitoris, created a heady combination that almost overwhelmed the capacity of her deprived senses.

“Uuuuhhhh,” she groaned as her face rolled against the wall, her shuttered eyes focusing on the foggy breaths that burst across the tiles from her parted lips.

Switching to the opposite nipple, he rolled and tugged it to attention, flatting the fingers of his other hand to grind her labia and clitoris together in deep, rhythmic circles that compressed and stretch her opening without even touching it.

Her breath hitched, then grunted out. A sound she could never remember making before and, against the stark acoustics of the tiles, an interjection that forced her to engage with the most primal part of her being.

Sliding across to twist and pull the straining first nipple, she felt the tip of his tongue touch down just above her collar bone before sliding in a slick wet trail up the side of her neck.

She almost choked on her own inhalation before her mouth fell open, her hoarse keening frightening in its raw need.

Then the fingers that had been mashing her labia suddenly slid deeper, one tip pressing into her opening as his tongue, which had languorously journeyed up to her earlobe, flicked at the tight hole there.

Her breath hissed between her clenched teeth as if she could somehow simultaneously shut him out of both openings. Manifestly unsuccessful, he plunged into them together and her legs instantly crumpled.

The hand on her breast slid down to cradle her around the waist while a second finger slid into her clenching canal. Her pussy had accommodated so little for so long that even his two fingers were managing to stretch and fill her with both their girth and depth. He delved in rhythmically while his tongue twisted in her ear, but all she could hear was her own whimpering.

His pistoning fingers sped up, bumping at the spot inside her, the one she knew theoretically but was, for the first time, feeling intimately with an aching pressure as he stimulated her sensitive urethra through her wall of her vagina. Thumb massaging and circling around her clitoris as he pumped, she heard herself shriek and felt her own breath blast into her chest.

As she continued to build, her entire pelvis clenching and tightening, she heard another sound, the wet, juicy sucking of her pussy as his fingers thrust and curled. It was such a blatant symphony of desire that it broke through her remaining barriers and she cried out, her throat opening with the vocal release, as her pussy exploded with the convulsive release of her juices.

“Ohh, ohh, uuuhhhhhhh,” she wailed, as she writhed and wrenched around in his grasp, her head curling against the wall and her muscles convulsing over and over in a seemingly endless combination of spasmodic contractions. She was bearing down so heavily that she could feel the liquid squirting from her with each stuttering jolt of her muscles, spattering on the tiles below.

He continued to pump into her and flick her clitoris until he had drawn the final fluttering twitches from her pussy.

Moaning quietly with each exhalation, she finally heard the sound of running water return and the soft rustle of him behind her.

“Do you wish to continue,” his deep voice suddenly jolted her.

Panting, her eyes gradually flickered open.

When she responded, her voice was louder, more emphatic than she had ever thought possible.

"Yes.”

 

 


	7. A Bird in the Hand

“You’re looking decidedly bright eyed, Dr Granger. I’d also venture bushy-tailed but it’s a little difficult to tell from here,” George remarked as he slid into the seat beside her at breakfast. “Don’t tell me you decided to make another attempt at sleeping?”

She had slept. In fact, it was the best sleep she could remember having in a very long time.

“Just curled up with a good book and had an early night,” she said, focusing on her yoghurt tub as she willed the flush from her cheeks.

“Really?” He swivelled to face her. “I might have to borrow it when you’ve finished.”

Hermione tilted her head. “I don’t think it would be quite your thing.”

“Why? Does it have words?”

Hermione choked, splattering yoghurt over the table. “How many times have I told you not to make me laugh when I’m eating,” she admonished him, wiping away the drops with her palm.

“It’s not always possible to control one’s humour.” George slurped his coffee. “I happen to have a disorder, you know? It’s called hyper-hilarity—spontaneous and, if I might say, sometimes quite debilitating buffoonery.”

“Don’t you mean baboonery?”

He snorted. “Not bad, Dr Granger. I see the ‘humour for dummies’ CD I loaned you has finally come in to its own.”

Hermione knew there was no point trying to go head to head with George in his pet domain, he would wipe the floor with her.

“Your humour has not been lost, however, on a certain young lady.” Hermione raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not sure of whom you refer but she does sound like someone with taste.” George returned the eyebrow raise and then did an extra wiggle for comedic effect.

“Ms Lenna?”

“Oh yes.” He took another swig of coffee. “Utterly delightful.”

His face suddenly turned serious and he let out a long breath. “And she’s definitely testing my comedic skills. When someone can go through what she has and still be willing to smile, it hits me right in the feels.” He thumped his chest, making himself cough.

Hermione reached over and squeezed his hand. “And that’s why you’re so good at helping people. You know a lot about loss.”

“Awww, I got over the ear a long time ago,” he responded with a sad grin.

“I meant Fred.”

“Yeah, I know.”

He returned the squeeze before sliding his chair out. “But the show must go on,” he gave a small bow. “They’re in our hands after all.”

***

Hermione waited in her office. A stony-faced Snape had requested a meeting with her and she was now picking at her cuticle, wondering what it might be about. She had plenty of work to be getting on with but her mind had no chance of thinking about anything other than being in his general vicinity again.

She had forseen this particular problem before he’d even arrived at Galladdon—his potential to monopolise her thoughts. But for some reason that hadn’t even been a consideration in her decision-making the previous day and now she sensed it could pose a considerable problem.

Then again, if the intention of the meeting was to put an end to their ‘arrangement’, perhaps she might be dislodging him from her thoughts sooner than expected.

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” she called, quickly picking up a pen to pretend that she’d been working.

He entered and closed the door behind himself. Locking it, wandlessly.

Her heart went from sixty to one hundred and twenty beats per minute in under two milliseconds.

He nodded toward the other door leading out of her office. “In your bedroom . . . Now.”

Hermione’s whole body swayed with each laboured breath but, as if she had been cursed with the Imperius, she rose and, without question, moved hastily to the door. He cast Alohomora and threw it open before she’d even arrived, following her in swift strides before pushing it closed with a loud thud.

“Take off your jeans and knickers. Leave your shirt on,” he ordered, pacing around her like a panther.

She was scared but, more than that, she was totally, achingly, aroused. The events of the previous evening had been the most erotic she’d ever engaged in and her pussy had been on constant high alert ever since. She was well aware that it was totally improper but she clung, steadfastly, on to her intention to consider their relationship a ‘professional arrangement.’

With shaking fingers she pulled down her jeans and knickers together.

“Boots off. Leave your socks on,” he instructed.

She did as he asked. Then stood, eyeing him warily, wondering what he had planned.

“Yesterday you learned to listen to your desire. Today you will learn to embrace it. Covet it.” As he spoke he slowly, emphatically flicked open the buttons of his right sleeve before rolling up the cuff to expose his pale forearm, rippling with sinewy muscles.

“Kneel on the edge of the bed, facing me.”

Again, she followed his instructions without question. It happened effortlessly, she didn’t even wrestle with herself, with any part of her. In fact, the voice she would have expected to be most vocal, her controlling self, seemed to have disappeared. Or at least taken a back seat.

He picked up a chair from the side of the room and placed it so that he could sit facing her, just below her eye level when she was kneeling. Propping one boot on the edge of the bed, he reached out and ran the fingertips of his exposed arm up her inner thigh. She shuddered in response.

“Open your legs further.” His voice was confidently instructive as if he had used the phrase a thousand times before.

She rocked her knees apart, feeling exposed despite the coverage of her shirt, the hem of which just covered her pubic hair.    

Locking his onyx eyes upon her chocolate ones, he trailed his fingertips over the curve of her inner thigh until they brushed her lips. Her brow furrowed in a twitch that would have suggested pain had he not instantly drawn his fingers back, slick with her arousal.

Glancing down at it, she gave a half turn of her head as if to deny its existence, or perhaps her responsibility for it, before catching herself, realising that she was supposed to be embracing her desire, not negating it.

“When I question you. I expect you to answer honestly,” he said, lifting his glistening fingers to his nose and inhaling deeply.

She nodded, red streaks of mortification blooming across her cheeks.

“Did you enjoy yesterday’s lesson.”

“Yes.” Her voice was husky, as if she hadn’t used it in months.

“You will address me as ‘sir’.” He lifted his chin.

She hesitated for a long moment.

“Are we going to have a problem?”

“No . . . sir.”

He stared at her for so long that her thighs began to tremble.

Looking down at his wet fingers, he rubbed them against his thumb. “You have permission to speak freely throughout this session but you will remember this rule.”

When he returned his gaze to her, she answered quickly, “Yes, sir.”

He gave a single nod. “Better.”

Reaching out again, his hand brushed the hem of her shirt as his fingers slid between her legs. Her chest rose with the intrusion but she remained silent. Pushing one finger inside her, he slowly rocked it in and out before adding a second. She remained stock still, but the tension in her shoulders and abdomen belied her body’s reflexive response. His eyes remained fused with hers and when he flicked her clitoris with his thumb she strained forward, grunting softly.

“Tell me,” he said. “Why are you clothed?”

The lips that had been clamped together to stop herself from moaning fell apart. His languorous hand movements were making it difficult to think.

“Uhhh . . . you want me to focus . . . sir.”

He paused. “That is correct. I want your core to be the centre of your attention for this session. Why, then, haven’t I told you to expose yourself to me?”

“Because . . . uuhhh . . . you don’t want to see me, sir?”

“Incorrect. This session is not about me. It is about you. My needs are inconsequential.”

She nodded shakily.

“With that in mind, you will now use my hand to bring yourself to orgasm.” His fingers stopped their ministrations.

She closed her eyes. Riding his hand, letting him feel her stimulation preferences and watch her technique, using him for her own satisfaction. It all struck at the foundations of her inhibitions. She could feel her face burning again. What she did for herself, to herself, was personal. Like a secret. She didn’t want anyone knowing these things about her. _Because if they knew, then what? They would have some power over her? They could use it against her?_ _She would be vulnerable to blackmail, to betrayal?_

As these thoughts tumbled around in her mind, his fingers remained still inside her and she knew he was watching the furious debate rage through her.

The strength of her feelings, she knew, were proportional to her need to let them go. She dealt with vulnerability on a daily basis. People cracked open and bleeding before her. Her holding their barely pumping hearts in her hands. She absolutely had to learn to do the same. To earn the right to treat them, she needed to be prepared to expose herself, to be vulnerable, to bleed too.

And so she started by rocking her hips. With his elbow braced against his knee, his fingers yielded little and she was able to gain considerable penetration simply by sinking herself down and spreading her legs further. His face gave away little but his eyes seared her like hot irons. She absolutely couldn’t look at him without wanting to collapse into a shuddering ball of pure mortification so she closed her eyes to focus, breathing heavily through her nose.

As she slid herself up and down, she rocked forward, her clitoris bumping against his rigid thumb, sending jolts of pleasure through her core. At risk of losing her balance with her eyes closed, she clutched at her own bare thighs.

“Can I touch you, sir?” she asked in a small voice.

“No.”

Holding herself tighter, she tried thrusting down onto him with more force but it left her feeling so light-headed and disoriented with her eyes closed that she had to stop. Finally, she opened her eyes.

“I can’t do it, sir.”

“Tell me why.”

“The dissonance is too much. The . . . intimacy of having your fingers inside me and the disconnect of not being able to touch you are cancelling each other out and I . . . just can’t make it work.”

He appraised her, gently tapping her clitoris with his thumb as he did so. Her jaw clenched further each time he did.

“You may touch my hand and arm.”

She let out the breath she’d been holding. “Thank you, sir.”

Sliding her hands down, she grasped his pale forearm with one and cradled the back of the hand inside her with the other.

Then she began pushing him up into her at the same time as she sank down, guiding his fingers along the walls of her pussy while pushing his thumb against her clitoris. Her fingers clutched at the lean muscles of his forearm every time she pushed into him, then slid back along his warm skin as she dragged her pussy away with a soft sucking sound. It struck her that his arm felt almost phallic in the way she was stroking it with each of her thrusts. Opening her legs wider, she clenched the walls of her pussy as tightly as she could, drawing him in.

She found her rhythm and slid up and down him easily, focusing on the twitching muscles in his arm so she could avoid his gaze. Then, shifting her knees a little, she found a new position where she could rock harder and faster into him.

“Uuuhhhh,” she moaned as she felt the pressure building inside her. Her eyelids fluttered closed but with his arm to steady her, she didn’t lose her rhythm. With increasing intensity, she began slamming herself down onto him, pressing her hand against the back of his to force his fingers deeper. She also pushed his thumb more urgently against her clitoris and was now simply digging the nails of her other hand into his forearm.

Her breathing came in gasps as the muscles of, not only her core, but her thighs, back, buttocks and abdomen started to clench ready for take-off. When she was almost there, she released his hand and grabbed his thumb in her fist, jiggling it frantically against her clit.

“Ohhh, unnnhhhh,” she cried out as she came, riding his fingers in spasmodic waves as her entire lower half convulsed. She continued to grind against him with each contraction, wringing out every shuddering thud of colliding muscles until she was spent, simply twitching and ticking around him.

When she opened her eyes, the corner of his mouth was slightly hitched and his eyebrow raised in what she could only guess was surprise.

She gave a small, shuddering sigh and a shy smile in return before releasing his mauled arm from her grip.  

He sat back in his seat, his forearm resting against his knee as juice dripped from his fingers onto the floor between his feet.

Sinking down to rest on her heels, she put her hands on the bed beside her for support, her thighs shaking with exhaustion.

“What have you learned about desire and gratification?” he asked.

She continued to draw in deep breaths through her nose.

“That people may sometimes want you to use them to gratify your desires, sir?”

“Good. Anything else?”

“That feeling connected to them, for me, is an important part of it.”

He gave a small nod before raising his glistening fingers. “Have you ever tasted your own desire?”

She slowly shook her head, looking dubious.

He raised his chin to peer at her. “Why would someone consume another person’s secretions for sexual pleasure?”

Hermine frowned. “I . . . I’m not sure I ever fully understood that . . . inclination.”

Snape sighed. “That’s your job. To understand such mindsets.” He leaned forward and grasped her around the back of the neck, pulling her forward so that her eyes were level with his. “Don’t . . . judge.”

Her breathing quickened with his firm touch.

Then he brought his hand up to her face, her nostrils filling with her own musky scent.

“When you taste your own arousal, when you desire your own desire, do you understand what a potent symbol that is for your body?”

Hermione let his words sink in and on some level they made sense to her.

“Show me.”

Tentatively, she put her tongue out and licked the tip of his index finger. It had a light salty, sweet flavour, not as strong as she would have expected.

“And the rest.”

Looking at his liberally coated fingers, she discovered that she wasn’t averse to the instruction. And, if she were honest, it wasn’t because of the inoffensive flavour, it was the opportunity to suck on those long, elegant digits that had already brought her so much pleasure.

Partly shocked and partly pleased to discover herself thinking such things after only two ‘lessons’, Hermione grasped his wrist with her hand and proceeded to lick him from the base of his palm, to the tip of his finger. She delved down to the webbing between to collect the wells of arousal that had pooled there before swallowing and continuing on. When she came to his middle finger, she approached it from the top and slid her lips down over it, sucking it deeply into her.

“Stop,” he growled, squeezing the back of her neck tightly but not painfully.

“What desire are you trying to express?”

She found herself having difficultly opening her eyes to look at him as her lids were heavy after her intent focus on servicing his fingers.

“I . . . I’m not sure what you mean, sir,” she mumbled.

“A desire for me. Or a desire for you?”

Even though she knew it was wrong. It was well and truly a desire for him.

“Adhere to my instructions,” he snapped.

With that, she finished licking the remainder of her arousal from him, focusing on collecting every visible drop.

When he released her and sat back, she could tell he was displeased. “That’s desire, is it?”

Hermione returned his stare, unsure of what to say.

Standing, he pushed the chair away with his boot and began unbuttoning his coat around the collar, doing the same with the buttons of his white shirt. When he’d finished, both were gaping at the neck and she caught a glimpse of the twisted scar there.

“Lie on your back.” He ordered. “Legs apart.”

Hermione didn’t take her eyes from him as she shuffled herself up the bed and lay down, her legs slightly separated.

“Are you looking to defy every instruction?”

She spread them further, only just managing to stop herself putting her hands over her face. It was excruciating to be opening herself up to him so blatantly, even after everything he already knew of her.

In a distinctly feline action, he leaned over and crawled up the bed until his arms were on either side of her thighs.

“Let me show you what desire is supposed to look like,” he said, staring into her eyes as he grasped a knee in each large hand and pushed her legs open until her glistening channel was gaping. Before she could respond, he lunged forward and captured one entire fleshy labia, sucking it hard into his hot mouth.

“Fuck!” she hissed, teeth clenching in a rictus of sensate shock, as her hips leapt from the bed. A guttural groan ground out of her as he tugged at the engorged lip with his teeth before delving back down to capture the other one with as much raw abandon. Mouth stretched wide, he sucked hungrily at the pink flesh of her inner lips before grinding his nose against her clitoris and nipping at the tight skin around her opening.

She felt herself hyperventilating, a high-pitched keening sound bursting out with each breath. His slick face rocked and rolled over her, totally unselfconsciously, before suctioning on to her clitoris, flicking and whipping his tongue over it in a frenzy of serpentine undulations as she bucked uncontrollably. Finally, he delved deep into her pussy with his tongue, pulling out and digging back into her from every angle, licking over and around her lips and clitoris before slamming back into her. Her entire lower half was rocking around like a deer being mauled by a lion.

The raw carnality of his actions was so overwhelming that after only a few rounds with his pounding tongue she came spectacularly, screaming as her release squirted into his mouth and gushed down his chin. He didn’t stop rolling his face over and into her until her thighs had completed their final convulsive shudder. When her moans had died away, he came up for air, tousled black mane framing his glistening face as he sucked in deep breaths.  

“Got it?”

“I think so . . . sir.”

 

 


	8. Cool Hand

As she watched him she tried her best to think decent thoughts. He was, after all, helping her. But with Snape frowning in deep concentration, casting a complicated series of incantations to charm Mollison’s mirror, she was so taken with his breathtaking skill and mastery that she could feel herself dripping all over again.

She knew it was going to be a problem. Already she had, undoubtedly, learned a significant amount from him. And it wasn’t simply an intellectual realisation. She felt a deep-seated understanding developing that was important to her both professionally and personally. But, while her body had previously responded to him with Pavlovian anxiety, it now responded with an equally-automatic arousal that was almost violent in the way it captured her.

It shouldn’t have been particularly surprising. She knew the physical manifestations of infatuation and had been on the receiving end more times that she could remember. But, as with so many other concepts, she hadn’t the visceral understanding that she did now. The benefit of her current predicament was that she could both feel the response and perceive it intellectually, adding to its value as a tool that might be employed with greater precision and, hopefully, more beneficial outcomes in the future.

However, when she wasn’t able to distance herself in time, simply being close to him, as she was now, felt like she was in the presence of an extremely composed tornado, a force that could suck her in at any moment.

“That might be it.” He studied the mirror closely, his eyes flickering over it with practised scrutiny, clearly hyper-critical of his own efforts. His perfectionism made her even wetter. Hermione wanted to slap herself around the face.

The image in the mirror was that of Shaun Mollison. It appeared as a perfect reflection, life sized, that Snape had transposed from a photograph. Hermione was still taken with the brilliance of the idea but, she now had to admit, more taken with Snape’s reflection behind it, and her own transposition over it—the ravenous lion that had relentlessly plundered her pussy the previous day.

She groaned.

He glanced at her.

She touched her stomach. “Indigestion.”

“Can I leave this with you?” he asked, returning his gaze to the mirror.

“Yes, thank you.” She only just stopped herself from saying ‘sir.’

That was going to be another problem—maintaining a clear separation between their ‘arrangement’ and the remainder of their interactions.  

He nodded before turning and striding from the room.

Just before the doorway, he stopped and looked up. One of the pulleys from Calder and Jaeger’s contraption still hung above the door. With a flick of his wrist, it dropped and he caught it easily in his palm.

A thought suddenly struck Hermione. “Why did they use your room?”

He turned to look at her. “Who do you think set it up? Without their wands, Magical Engineers are fucking useless.”

Then he left.

She stared after him, the energy in the room plummeting as if the sun had suddenly retreated behind a cloud. Stunned but not surprised, she turned the revelation over in her mind. Snape had helped Calder and Jaeger to execute their bondage fantasy. It made sense. He was so accepting of other people’s diverse sexualities. She sighed deeply. Everyone, it seemed, except hers.

***

When she returned to the activities room, she caught sight of Snape and Pomona walking past the windows on their way into the forest. It was the third time in the past week that she d seen them leave together. It was good that the two Professors were enjoying one another’s company. She might prove to be important for his transition back to Hogwarts.

“What’s this? The casual look?” George sauntered up. “Carefree and follicularly abandoned?”

Hermione frowned in confusion.

“The hair,” he said. “I can’t remember the last time you didn’t submit it to the torture of a severe ponytail.”

Slightly bewildered, she looked sideways at the locks that were cascading over her shoulders. She’d forgotten to tie it back. She never forgot.

George raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Dr Granger, have I caught you in a moment of imperfection?”

“Never.” Hermione recovered with a smirk. “It’s simply not possible.”

George grinned in response. “Such refreshing modesty.”

“So how are things progressing here?”

“Well,” he wandered over to a nearby table and picked up a folder, “Sprout wrote a poem entitled ‘Oh me, Oh mine, the Mandrake’ likening her anxiety to the Mandrake scream. It was pretty powerful and I think helped her to think about how to mitigate against its effects.” He reached into the folder. “Then Sarah produced this.”

He handed her a sheet of parchment.

Hermione looked over the soft flowing letters and her heart sank like a stone.

 

**_Dark Angel_ **

_He appeared. Like night. Or death._

_Fleet of foot. Can you hear him? Can you hear the storm?_

_The forest floor knows of one such as he._

_His breast of bark and wings of leaves._

_It shudders as I shudder. It sighs as I sigh._

_But with him it lifts. One alone into the light._

_The shackled breast buckles. Shattering into dust._

 

George looked at her. “Any thoughts?”

She had more thoughts than she knew what to do with.

“It’s really positive that she’s looking to express herself. We should keep encouraging it.”

She knew it sounded hollow, pathetic. But she was too consumed by both the power of Sarah’s words and, selfishly, how they might be interpreted.

George rubbed his chin, clearly perturbed by her, less than astute, response. “Well, I’ll be sure to call on you when I next need an insight into the bleeding obvious,” he said.

“I’m sorry that I can’t provide some sort of poetic analysis,” Hermione huffed.

“Neither can I,” said George, “But I can provide a poem.”

He cleared his throat.

“There once was a young man from Leeds,

Who swallowed a packet of seeds.

Within half an hour,

His dick was a flower,

And his balls were all covered with weeds.”

Hermione snorted. “I take that back. I can provide a poetic analysis. I would describe the author as immature, shallow and having a penchant for botanical sex.”

“Accurate,” he nodded. “Sprout gave me that one. I’ll pass on your analysis.”

“Don’t you dare!”

George backed away. “I can’t make any promises,” he said, spreading his arms wide before leaving to join Emily who was undertaking her trauma release exercises on the mats in the corner of the room.

Hermione was pleased to see the progress Emily had made in just one day, allowing the tremor to capture her muscles, shaking out the tension.

Dennis, as usual, was playing the piano. But this time it was a tune she didn’t recognise, simple but beautifully melodic.

“Is that a new one?” she asked, leaning against the top of the piano to watch him.

“Yes. Professor Snape taught it to me. It’s called ‘the lost song’. He said to play it when I lose something. And it will be found.”

Hermione watched his hands, once clumsy and hesitant, now confident and flowing. She felt herself seeing him as more than simply a boy, locked in a man’s body. She realised, now, that she had been too Freudian in her original diagnosis. By pigeon-holing him, she’d denied the complexity of his current make-up. And she felt herself now opening up to new ways of engaging with him.

“Will you come for a walk with me later?” she asked.

He stopped playing and looked at her with a shy grin. “Of course.”

***

George, Ellory and Lynch were already seated in the staff room when she entered for their pre-dinner meeting.

She had spent the afternoon with Shaun Mollison, explaining to him the purpose of the mirror and the thought processes she wanted him to engage with while using it. She could feel some resistance from him and, with her new insights from Snape, suspected that on some level he was still looking to retain the curse. She’d scheduled a meeting with him the following day with the intention of discussing it.

“Do you want to start, Simone?” Lynch nodded to her.

Ellory pushed the glasses that had been perched on her head, down to her nose to read her notes.

“Pomona is making good progress in my opinion,” she said. “Under hypnosis, she revealed that the greenhouse door seemed to have been deliberately propped open when the Venomous Tentacula escaped. I wonder if this might be the information she needs to stop blaming herself for its attack on her first year class.”

Everyone nodded.

“Then, of course, we have the miracle woman.” Ellory glanced up at the others. “Sarah. Who would have thought, only a week or two in and already she seems to be cured?”

Hermione focused on the cup of tea before her.

“She’s still only engaging superficially but it’s an excellent start and, no doubt, we will get to the bottom of her issues in good time,” Ellory continued.

“She’s spending a lot of time walking in the forest,” added Lynch. “I’m encouraging her to keep exploring—bringing back any items of interest that she finds. She’s liable to be completely sky-focused otherwise.”

_‘She needed grounding’_ , thought Hermione. Snape had, of course, been right.

“And . . . then there’s Snape.”

Hermione looked up at Ellory, who seemed to be deliberately avoiding her gaze.

“He seemed to take a lot from his massage therapy session this afternoon.”

“What?”

Ellory placed her pen down on her notes with slow deliberation before sliding her glasses off and fixing Hermione with a glare.

“As I predicted. Snape was holding a lot of tension in his body. I performed a full massage on him and, judging by his response, he seemed to find it . . . a release.”

Hermione turned to Lynch. “You let her massage him?”

Lynch fixed her with his blue eyes. “As we discussed previously, Dr Ellory is a qualified massage therapist. I considered it an appropriate approach for this particular client.”

Hermione shook her head. “I thought you said something had to be sorted out before you authorised it.”

“It’s been sorted,” he replied abruptly, not deviating his gaze.

She was furious beyond reason but there was absolutely nothing she could say. Remaining practically mute for the remainder of the meeting, she snatched up her notes at the end and stormed out of the room.

He was seated by himself, reading a book and picking morsels from his plate. Hermione didn’t even pretend to want to eat. She made a bee-line for his table and sat without waiting to be invited.

“Why did you let Ellory massage you?” she said in a low voice.

Placing his fork on his plate, he sat back in his seat and frowned at her. Then, folding his magazine, he leaned forward. “Do not mistake our ‘arrangement’ for a relationship,” he hissed. “I will give and receive, to and from, whom I wish. And never attempt to make me fit into your narrow view of the world.”

With that, he dropped the magazine on the table and left.

***

The bonfire was well and truly ablaze by the time Hermione arrived at ‘the Bath’ that evening. All of the bench seats were already occupied and, she noticed, Sarah was sitting with Snape. She seemed to be watching his hands. No doubt he was impressing her with his whittling.

Hermione was well and truly aware of the psychopathology she was demonstrating. It was as plain as the nose on her face. She was insanely jealous.

Crossing her arms tightly over her chest, she stood, gazing into the flames that leapt and curled around the tepee of logs that Lynch had arranged. Her usual self-flagellation would involve berating herself for her unprofessionalism and objectifying her emotions. But standing alone, against the roaring flames, she felt small and craved a level of self-compassion she rarely afforded herself.

Her inner critic who, let’s face it, was a seasoned professional, would claim that she was simply feeling sorry for herself. However, the truth of the matter was that she hadn’t had sexual relations with anyone for over two and half years. She had spent that time, and more besides, repressing her sexuality for the purposes of focusing on her profession—a living oxymoron, the sexless sex therapist.

But she’d needed to control her interactions within such narrow parameters, it had seemed like the only way. Now, she wondered if perhaps it wasn’t.

That fledgling part of her that had been released, or perhaps born anew, in the past two days felt, now, like it had been crushed before it even had a chance to be. Hermione could feel the tears welling in her eyes and, although she was far enough from the rest of the group for it not be noticed, she didn’t even want her energy impacting upon an evening that should be about connection and contemplation around this beautiful sparking pyre.

Gradually receding beyond the edge of the golden firelight, she backed into the darkness of the trees and cast Lumos before turning and stumbling away.

She had no particular plan beyond fleeing but knew that if she kept walking, she would end up at a path that led to the back entrance of the Retreat.

Weaving between trunks, she finally allowed the tears to fall, hot against the pinching chill of her cheeks. It was a relatively silent release, no sobbing or wailing, just harsh rasping breaths signifying the acceptance of a difficult truth.

And then he was there, impossibly materialising out of the darkness. And she fell into him without thought, burying her face in the rough wool of his coat. One strong arm encircled her. It wasn’t a hug by any means, but it brought a level of comfort all the same.

She willed herself not to cry, but the breaths that bloomed from her in the blue light of Lumos were clearly beyond that induced by physical exertion alone.  

“Jealousy is an expression of impotent desire,” he rumbled in her ear. “It is the antithesis of what you have learned. Your mind is both flexible and adaptable. Use it.”

She reined in her breaths and nodded before looking up into his face.

He gently swung her around until her back was against the trunk of a nearby tree before pressing against her. When she felt his erection through the fabric of his trousers, it brought such a wave of relief that she felt like crying all over again. On some level she’d wondered if he was even attracted to her. After all of the commentary around her sub-par appearance, she had even contemplated that she might repulse him.

Certainly the carnal intensity of his demonstration the previous day had suggested some level of desire but, then again, it was a performance intended to illustrate a point more than anything else. _Wasn’t it?_

Her fingertips trailed over the hard contours of him and she felt him tense.

“Can I touch you, sir?” she murmured, repeating her line from their previous encounter.

He paused before giving a brief nod.  

Casting Leviosa on her wand so that it floated in the air beside them, she reached down and unbuttoned his trousers, before sliding her hand inside to feel the silky warmth of his cock. It had been so long since she’d touched one that she’d forgotten both the comfort and intensity of holding the rigid symbol of desire in her palm. Despite the time away, she knew his was bigger than any of her previous partners. She’d never thought she had a particular preference but could already feel her pussy clenching in anticipation.

Gently squeezing his shaft, she ran her hand up and down its length, pausing at the head to draw her fingers through the pre-cum that had pooled there. Suddenly, he grasped her wrist and murmured the seam splitting spell, causing her jeans and knickers to fall away into a pool at her feet.

Before she knew it, he'd lifted her against the trunk and hooked one of her legs around his hip. Then she felt two of his fingers sliding into her sopping entrance, no doubt checking her readiness before he lined his head up with her opening.

“Do you agree to continue?” His rich voice reverberated through her chest.

“Yes,” she gasped, clutching at his shoulders.

He thrust into her.

“Uuhhhh!” Her head slid against the bark as she tipped her face to the night sky.

With short strokes, he gradually worked his way inside, giving her tight channel a chance to stretch to accommodate him. She’d been right, he was much bigger than she remembered anyone being but there was a good chance her pussy had shrunk after years of little use. The sensation of him embedded inside her made her feel so incredibly full, not only within the confines of her pelvis but also in the tortured confines of her chest, that it made her groan.

Lengthening his strokes, his cock slid almost fully out of her on each rhythmic thrust, before he drove it back home. He was so fluid in his movements, she felt like she was being fucked by some sort of sex connoisseur, a virtuoso of fucking which, perhaps, he was.

When she had loosened up, he started to thrust into her with greater intensity, bottoming out inside her as he rammed her against the tree.

Each thrust was met by a keening moan as she began to lose control. He sped up his strokes to match the tightening of her pussy and she felt herself rapidly approaching the edge.

“Make me come, sir,” she whispered into his shoulder and he groaned in response, the first sound she’d heard him make.

“I didn’t give you permission to . . . speak,” he ground out, as he continued to pump into her.

Biting her lip she tried not to make a sound but then cried out as she came, a huge explosion around his pistoning shaft, his hard contours providing exquisite resistance for her pulsing muscles as she bucked against him.

“Unnnhhhh, you feel so good, sir,” she gasped before he suddenly pulled out of her, his iron cock shining in the light of the Lumos spell.

As he pushed it back into his trousers she grabbed his arm. “Why didn’t you come?”

“This is not about me,” he growled, before pulling away from her and disappearing into the night.

 

 


	9. Sleight of Hand

“I’ve done something very . . . bad.”

Shaun Mollison sat opposite her, grimacing and ticking as the Cruciatus tortured his body.

“Bad in what way?”

“Bad . . . in every way.” He twitched and writhed but didn’t avoid her gaze.

“Are you the only one responsible for this . . . bad thing?” asked Hermione, aware that she had to tread carefully around his guilt.

“Yes.”

“Are you willing to talk about what you did?”

“No.”

“Is there any way you feel you could make amends. To apologise perhaps?”

“I don’t think so,” he grunted, as another spasm captured him.

“Do you have a partner, Mr Mollison?” Hermione knew that there was no-one specifically mentioned in his notes.

“No.” He eyed her warily. _There was something there_.

“Was there someone recently?”

“Not that they were . . . aware of.”

Hermione frowned inwardly. _An oblique admission_.

“Why wouldn’t they have known?”

“Because I didn’t tell them.”

“A crush?”

“Sort of. Probably more than that.”

 _An obsession_. But she didn’t want a word like that out in the open just yet.

“Did you want the person to know?”

“Sometimes.”

“Did you talk to them?”

“No. I just watched.”

“Was this person someone you worked with? Went to school with?”

“No. I just saw her on the bus sometimes.”

“And that’s the only time you saw her?”

“No.”

“Were there other places?”

“Yes. Her house.”

“You went to her house?”

“Yes.”

“Inside?”

“No.”

“You saw her from outside the house?”

“Yes, there was a wall I could sit on.”

“Did you just look at her?”

“No.”

“What else did you do?”

“I jacked off.”

“Is that why you feel guilty?”

“I don’t want to . . . talk anymore.” He suddenly lunged out of his seat, balancing on shaky legs.

“Of course.” Hermione put a hand on his twitching arm. “Mr Mollison, I understand that you feel that you need to be punished. But while you’re attached to this negative judgement about your actions, it doesn’t make you more accountable for what you did. It actually stops you from being authentic and, therefore, makes you less responsible. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

He stared at her for a long time with hollow, haunted eyes and she could see that he was trying to trust her. Finally he replied, “Yes.”

“If you want to take responsibility for your actions, you are going to have to let your real self be expressed, and that is going to require letting go of the Cruciatus. I want you to focus on the mirror therapy over the next few days. Will you do that for me?”

She knew that linking his behaviour to her approval may prove problematic in the future but, at that moment, developing trust was more important. 

He stared at her intently before giving a tight nod.

***

They sat in the watery autumn sunlight, gazing at the vast wilderness between the lookout and the dusky peaks of distant mountains. Hermione had been somewhat surprised that Dennis had taken the lead in their steep climb, waiting for her and helping her with strong arms up the tricky parts. They now reclined on the rocks, breathing in the crisp air, allowing their tired muscles to recuperate.

“Our mother was always an anxious person,” Dennis said. “I was the youngest. I guess she babied me. It was like she didn’t want me to grow up. In case I no longer needed her. And when Colin died, her anxiety became worse. She wouldn’t let me out of her sight. It was suffocating.”

“And you played that role? The dependent child?” Hermione picked up a small stone and threw it off the steep edge of the lookout. She lost sight of it about half-way down.

“When you love someone, you let them use you in the ways they need to. Being useful, needed by a person can be part of who you are, like your identity. And when I finally left home, when I did it for myself, to give myself the space I needed, I felt like I’d lost something and that I’d betrayed her. I still feel guilty.”

Hermione nodded. It explained a lot about Dennis but it also helped consolidate her thoughts about what might be happening with Snape. All of his life, he'd been used by people. His identity had been forged around tending to other people’s needs and certainly, as a spy, he’d been prepared to give his life to serve others. With Lily Evans, he gave her the friendship she needed but when he started to assert his own desires, he was rejected. No doubt, if she dug further, Hermione would discover a dysfunctional family environment in which he was expected to care for the emotional needs of his parents, whilst denying his own. And then there was the current situation at Hogwarts where, unless he was of use to them in whatever state they demanded, he would be rejected. His needs were, again, out of the equation despite what he’d sacrificed for them.

How then, had he become so proficient at, and understanding of, sex? The act where, according to his own teachings, one was to take gratification in another? She now wondered if the caveat was, ‘unless you're Severus Snape’. Had he been servicing other people’s needs sexually over the past eight years? It seemed plausible. Or, as Dennis suggested, perhaps it related to his level of emotional connection. Maybe he didn’t have trouble using people he didn’t care about. But when he did have a connection, he couldn’t bring himself to forward his needs or desires because he’d been taught that they didn’t matter, and the fear of rejection on that basis was too great.

***

That practised, inscrutable expression was back. He sat opposite, his fingers steepled as he appraised her.

“Why did you leave in such a hurry yesterday evening?”

Snape frowned. “I consider it most inappropriate for our _arrangement_ to be discussed in this session.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s a separate consideration. My actions were directed toward a specific purpose and shouldn’t be considered out of context.”

Hermione drew in a deep breath. “I’m afraid, Professor, that when you leave here in a few weeks’ time, I need to be able to provide a report on your current mental health status and the progress you have made at Galladdon. I need to use all of the information at my disposal to construct an accurate profile.”

“I passed the psychiatric tests.”

“Dr Ellory would not have shown you the results. Therefore, you are telling me that you answered in a specific way to demonstrate the outcome that you intended.”

He didn’t respond, rubbing his chin with his steepled fingers as he scrutinised her.  

“Please answer my question.”

“I left because I was confident you could find your own way back.”

Hermione shook her head, the mind games had returned.

“Avoidance tactics are unbecoming of you, Professor.”

“Maybe your question should be more specific.”

“Why didn’t you let yourself ejaculate?”

_Was that specific enough?_

“I thought I explained that last night.”

“You didn’t _explain_ anything. You made a statement.”

Snape shifted in his seat. “Our arrangement is intended for you to become more aware of yourself. Your fixation on me is currently undermining that.”

Hermione knew he was trying to divert her, she needed to stay on task.

“Professor, would you consider bringing your needs into our arrangement?”

The muscles in his jaw tensed. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

He knew perfectly well what she meant.

“Would you allow me to gratify you in our sessions?”

“No.”

“Would you gratify yourself using me?”

He swallowed. “No.”

“Can you tell me why?”

“That dynamic is not what you need to progress.”

“But it’s what you need.”

He inhaled deeply through his nose. “What I need is for you to write the fucking report and let me get on with my life.”

“I can’t do that, Professor.”

“You should be well and truly aware by now that I could do all of your jobs better than any of you. I don’t need to be here.” His voice was low and tight.

“Did you accept Ellory’s massage because she means nothing to you? Is that why you wouldn’t let me do the same for you?”

“Because you mean something to me?” he sneered. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Then let me . . . help you. Tell me why your needs don’t matter?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t say that.”

“Tell me why you’re denying them? These are your lessons, Professor. Remember? Acknowledging one’s desires? Being prepared to use others for gratification? Why can’t you follow your own teachings? If I’m repressed, then you are in denial. By choosing to only have your needs, sexual or otherwise, met by people you don’t care about, you can ensure that any rejection is not personally devastating. You fuck me but keep it under the safe umbrella of ‘service provision’ so, again, any rejection isn’t of you, it’s of the process.”

“Dr Granger, you are hardly equipped to speak about denial or, indeed, sexual pathology. You have formed an unhealthy attachment to a patient under your care. Perhaps that is something that needs to be shared with Mr Lynch?”

“Go right ahead.”

He glared at her. “Write the fucking report!”

“No. Let me help you.”

“I don’t need help from a sexually inexperienced, professionally incompetent, former student trying to solve her own problems by living vicariously through the sexual exploits of her pathetic patients.”

Hermione flushed but she was determined not to give up.

“You are attracted to me.”

“I have developed the professional capacity to fake a lot of things.”

“And I have developed the professional capacity to tell a fake. Let me help you.”

“Why? So you can pigeon-hole me as the ‘starfish-boy’?”

“No. Because I think you deserve a better life.”

“I don’t _deserve_ anything,” he spat before rising from his chair and storming out.

***

He was deliberately ignoring her. Not only that, but he cancelled their next scheduled session and requested another massage with Ellory. She knew what he was doing—trying to distance himself from her as much as possible. _Would he also follow through with his threat to reveal their ‘arrangement’ to Lynch?_

The only bright moment in the week was when Emily rose from her wheelchair and took a series of tentative steps over to where George was levitating wild mushrooms for Pomona. Grabbing his shoulders from behind, she made him jump, causing the mushrooms to rain down on them and filling the room with laughter and applause. The burns on her feet had finally healed sufficiently and, even more positively for Hermione, she’d also revealed that she’d managed to get a few hours’ sleep and was interested in taking up meditation.

Later that day, Hermione was heading toward ‘the Bath’ with Dennis, when she saw Snape and Sarah returning from the forest. It shook her more deeply than she’d anticipated, especially after a solid week of resolving herself to a permanent deterioration in their relationship. No matter how hard she tried to focus on what Dennis was saying, her mind kept straying back to his face, turned to the beautiful woman with genuine interest, painfully twisting the knot in her stomach.

Upon her return, Hermione decided to take Emily a book on meditation. She’d found the woman to be extremely insightful and an excellent listener and, to some extent, confidant. Hermione had rarely had anyone, except George, to share her thoughts with in all her time at the Retreat.

Making her way to Emily's door, she was surprised to hear a deep voice coming from inside. Leaning close, she could make out some of what was being said.

“That’s it . . . Love, good . . . “

It was Snape. And since when did he call anyone ‘Love’? Was he with Sarah again? Hermione was at the absolute end of her tether. Removing her wand she cast Alohomora.

When she burst inside, her heart stopped. Snape was lying on top of Emily, his hands under her shirt. Hermione had never seen the young woman with her head garment removed and now the raw pink scars scoring her pale face shocked her all over again.

“Leave her alone!” Hermione shrieked, storming toward him.

Snape pulled his hands away and rose.

“What are you fucking doing!” she growled, drawing her hand back and hitting him as hard as she could across the face.

He didn’t respond, simply staring at her, his pale cheek blooming red.

“Answer me!” She drew her hand back again.

“Stop. Don’t!” Emily wheezed.

Hermione turned to see tears trickling down the chaotic rivulets of her cheeks.

“He’s been helping me.”

“Yeah, he’s good at that,” Hermione sneered.

“I’m sorry. I should have told you before,” the woman sobbed.

“Fuck,” Hermione hissed, putting her hands on her hips and staring at the ground.

“It’s me, Hermione. It’s Luna.”

Hermione’s head snapped up.

“I'm Luna Lovegood.”

 

 


	10. Dab Hand

Hermione held Luna’s hand as the tears continued to stream down both of their faces. Snape had quietly taken his leave of them and now they sat on the bed, facing one another.

Luna’s trademark blonde hair which, so far at Galladdon, had been covered by the head garment, now showed as a patchwork of short tufts. But her eyes, Hermione recognised, were the same ethereal silver-grey she had known throughout her years at Hogwarts. She wondered why she’d not noticed them until now. Had she been so concerned with avoiding Luna’s scars that she’d not allowed herself to really see the woman?

“What happened Luna?” Hermione finally found her voice.

“What can I say? I got burned,” Luna shrugged. “Turns out it was my own fault. Remember how I was always in trouble for leaving candles around the place? I guess I learned my lesson the hard way in the end. I thought I’d extinguished them all but . . . apparently not. It was the Thestrals that saved me—they woke me up, helped me through the smoke and flames.”

Hermione remembered that Luna had been able to see the rare winged horses ever since she’d witnessed her mother’s death.

“Why didn’t you tell me it was you?”

Luna shook her head. “It wasn’t personal, Hermione. This was about me trying to come to terms with what’d happened. After my mother died, I became close with my grandmother, Emily, who helped lift me out of the sadness. She was the strongest woman I’d ever known and, even though she’s gone now, I felt that if I took her name, some of her strength would also be with me. And she always pronounced my first name ‘Lenna’. So . . . I just put the two names together. Everything I had was lost in the fire so there were no records. I could have been anyone or no one after that. And, for a while, I really wished I was no one.”

Hermione gently squeezed her hand. “So you changed your identity to deal with your loss?”

“Not really.” Luna swallowed, the emotion clearly taking its toll on her damaged vocal cords. “I just wanted time to become Luna again—to reconcile the new outside with the old inside. Until I was ready to do that, I needed a caretaker, my grandmother, Emily. And she helped. But now I think I’m ready, Hermione. I think I can be Luna again.”

Hermione nodded. She was still deeply shocked, but her feelings for Emily had been so similar to her feelings for Luna that she was finding that the two seemed to merge, almost effortlessly, within her.

But then her stomach clenched. “Luna, please tell me if Snape hurt you.”

Luna shook her head and started blinking as if she were about to cry again. “Hermione. That man.” She wiped her nose on her wrist. “He’s the most compassionate soul I have ever met.”

Hermione’s head tipped back as she tried to hold in her own tears. _What had she done?_

“He knew it was me from the very beginning,” Luna murmured. “I don’t know how. But he sat next to me on the bus and, so very quietly, whispered in my ear. “Miss Lovegood, you have been in the wars.” She sniffed loudly. “I was so low then, he just let me hold his arm for the whole trip.”

Hermione tried to swallow past the aching lump in her throat. “You said he’d been helping you?”

“Yes. He and Pomona have been out most days, looking in the forest for ingredients. He knew there were rare herbs in these parts that could be used for healing potions—particularly ones that were effective on burns. He’s been brewing them at night in the kitchen when everyone’s asleep and helping me to apply them. That’s why I can walk, Hermione. They worked so well on my feet, I feel hardly any pain there at all.”

Hermione bit her lip and nodded. She’d just realised that when she thought she’d heard Snape saying ‘love, good’, he’d been saying ‘Lovegood’, most likely, ‘Miss Lovegood.”

“You need to apologise,” Luna squeezed her hand. “But I know he’ll forgive you.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” A shuddering sigh captured Hermione’s chest.

“He talks about you.”

Hermione blinked in surprise. “What did he say?”

“Mostly funny things.”

“Funny?” Hermione gave a sceptical frown; she couldn’t imagine Snape being funny.

“Yes, like ‘If Dr Granger catches me brewing she’ll have my balls for paperweights’. And one time he found a particularly fuzzy herb and said, ‘Decidedly Granger-esque don’t you think?’”

Hermione couldn’t decide whether to be offended or not. “So nothing particularly nice then?”

“What did you expect? It’s Snape.”

“He was nice to you.”

“Yes, but you haven’t been spit-roasted.”

Hermione burst out laughing. “I’m sorry,” she shook her head.

“Why do you think I said it?” Luna’s scarred lips curled into a smile. “Laughter has been the best medicine of all. I always knew the Weasley twins were funny but, Merlin’s balls, Hermione, George is the most hilarious person I’ve ever met. And he is so genuinely caring. I just adore him.”

“He’s pretty adorable,” Hermione agreed. “And a bit of an ass.”

“Perfect,” Luna grinned. “I’m going to need him to help me get healthy because I’m in training.”

“Training?”

“Yes, now that my feet are getting better, I’ve challenged Shaun Mollison to race me to the top of the lookout.”

“What did he say?”

“Well, it took a while but he’s finally agreed. He’s going to be my training partner. But when it’s race day, he’s going to have to watch out.”

Hermione marvelled at her, knowing that she was doing it as much for Shaun as she was herself. “So, can I call you Luna now?”

“Yes.” Luna gave a happy sigh. “Everyone can.”

***

Hermione had originally planned to transfigure her scarf into a blanket that they could both sit on, but she now found the mood too awkward to even contemplate it. They stood together on the riverbank, hands thrust deeply into coat pockets, gazing over the restless grey waters. Hermione watched the agonisingly slow progress of the waterbirds, their desperate lunges as they attempted to paddle upstream. She felt their pain.

“I’d like to apologise,” she said quietly.

He didn’t respond, his Snapely stolid countenance as impenetrable as a wall.

“I made assumptions. They were wrong. I know I do that too often and it’s something I need to change.”

She ventured a look at him. In side profile, his frown was less visible; he appeared to be focusing on a distant object. Perhaps a memory.

“Professor, I’m going to be honest with you. I’m not proud of what I did. I’m not proud of who I am at this stage of my life, on any level. I’m not sure what’s happened, but I feel totally inept and, frankly, overwhelmed. And I wonder if anything I say now is going to make a difference or if I should just accept that, for the remainder of your stay here, it would be best if we terminate all contact on both a personal and professional level?”

After a long pause, he turned to her. His indelible frown was present but it was more confused than disapproving. “I’d like to hear your explanation before deciding upon a course of action.”

Hermione shrugged, kicking at the dewy grass around her boots. “All I can say is that I let my emotions get the better of me. On one level I thought I was protecting Emily . . . Luna. But on another I was angry at you. I wanted to punish you for ignoring me. I thought you were deliberately attempting to make me jealous. And I _was_ jealous. I know there are so many things you can say about my behaviour. They are all true. I’m deeply flawed. I probably shouldn’t even be here.”

He turned back to the water. “You’re a woman who clearly hasn’t had sexual attention in a long time.”

Hermione nodded. “Yes, but it’s more than that. You’ve shown me something I didn’t think existed in me, something I’d given up on. And now I know it’s there, I’m desperate not to let it go. I don’t want to go back to the way I was. But, then again, at least the way I was, didn’t have me hitting innocent people around the face.”

“I’m far from innocent, Dr Granger,” his voice was a low rumble, almost lost in the sound of the rushing water.

“I know what you did for Luna and what you’ve done for others here. You are undoubtedly caring and compassionate. But I also know you deny your own needs and now I think it’s because you believe that you don’t deserve them to be met. I wonder if you understood Shaun Mollison and the Cruciatus because you’re punishing yourself in a similar way.”

Snape was silent for a long while before he finally sighed. “It seems to me that there are two possible courses of action. Either I tell Lynch that I refuse to engage with you further, whereupon I am subjected to his tedious exercise regimes, Weasley’s fart jokes and Ellory’s fondling which, by the way, she’s very good at but lacking in confidence because she seems to be undermined at every turn by the ‘golden girl’ who can do no wrong in Lynch’s eyes and who endlessly questions her skills.”

Hermione was quite taken aback by the insinuation and was about to respond when Snape raised a hand.

“Or, we continue with our arrangement until you demonstrate to me that you have matured sufficiently in your understanding to help me.”

Hermione considered his words.

“I’m not sure we have sufficient time. I would like to suggest an iterative approach. In the same way that I am able to indicate if I’m willing to continue after each session, you will have an equivalent opportunity. However, I want your needs to be integrated into our sessions. I believe they are integral to my own understanding and, of course, I think you will concomitantly benefit.”

His lips pouted thoughtfully and, if she were honest, utterly sexily. “A persuasive argument, Dr Granger,” he mused before releasing a long breath. “And, to be frank, I’m too fucking tired to argue. Mollison’s ticking keeps me awake half the night and brewing for Miss Lovegood has had me awake the rest of the time. I agree to your terms. I would also add that, from now on, it would be appropriate for you to approach me when you are ready for your next lesson.”

“I’ll see you this evening then,” Hermione replied, focusing intently upon the plight of the waterbirds.

He glanced at her, eyebrow raised and the ghost of a smirk on his lips. “That was one thing I always did admire about you Dr Granger, you were always so desperate to learn.”

***

“I want all of your clothes off for this.” Snape was seated on the end of her bed, hands resting on his knees.

“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing?”

“The appropriate response would be, ‘yes, sir.’”

Hermione unfolded her arms.

“Yes, sir.” She didn’t sound particularly submissive but he didn’t admonish her further.

She began removing her clothing, draping each piece over a nearby chair. She watched him watching her as she peeled off layer after layer of ‘farm hand’ until she was standing, completely naked, before him.

“It’s cold.” She suddenly shivered, folding her arms in front of her rock-hard nipples. He reached forward and grasped her wrists, pulling them back down to her sides.

“You’ll be warm soon enough,” he said, running one hand down her hip in a familiar gesture that surprised her. “Now, I want you over my lap.”

She stared at him, her eyes searching his. “I really don’t think that’s my . . . thing.”

He rolled his eyes. “Since when has the purpose of this exercise been to find your ‘thing’? This is about you being willing to adopt and understand different mindsets from your current one. And, believe me, after today, this is something you’ll benefit from. I’m willing to talk you through it but I don’t want to be constantly met by blatant refusal.”

“I’m not . . . it’s just . . . “ She looked down at the dark wool of his trouser-clad thighs and imagined her naked body draped over them. “It seems childish.”

He looked at her hard. “Need I remind you of the words you used this morning? ‘Inept’, ‘overwhelmed’, ‘flawed’, ‘jealous’ —they are just ‘adult speak’ for frightened, naughty and ‘having a temper tantrum’. Your identity is not your occupation, Dr Granger. You are a composite of emotions, many of which developed and still reside within the domain of childhood. But, most importantly for you, this is about control and relinquishing it—not in a professional power dynamic per se but where you defer to someone with greater expertise and someone you trust to know what you need.”

She still looked unsure and decidedly awkward but took a deep breath and tried to push away her professional demeanour, bending forward over his legs so her bottom was directly above his right thigh.

“Is this going to — Ow!” she cried, her head jerking up to glare at him. “That fucking hurt . . . sir.”

“Head down.” He returned her glare. “Now.”

She reluctantly let her curly mop flop back over her head.

There was another loud slap and a burning sting as his hard palm landed on her left cheek.  

She bit her lip and shook her head. It hurt far more than she would have thought possible.

“What we have, Dr Granger, is a situation where you have controlled your sensory input within such narrow parameters that this sort of sensation is totally foreign to you. Your body resists it. But it shouldn’t.”

He slammed into the other cheek.

She grunted but didn’t cry out.

“This is not a matter of me hurting you. This is you requesting correction and me servicing that need. I want you to focus on that. Remember your guilt? You hitting me? Causing me pain? Connect with that memory too.”

She felt another intense flash of pain across her backside and the jolt of it connecting with her need to be absolved. On some level, it suddenly felt like a relief.

The next slap seemed duller even though she knew the intensity was building. It was as if now she’d stopped resisting so much, it wasn’t causing her the same degree of pain.

“Now consider the vulnerability of your current situation. You have given yourself to me. You have exposed yourself fully and trusted me to know your needs. This is why I’m doing this _for_ you, not _to_ you.”

Her breath came out in a grunting sigh with the next slap. Another release. And then she felt it, a tightening in her core at the understanding that this act was ‘for her.’ Her head felt lighter even though her rump was on fire.

He gave her another and her body relaxed immediately afterward. This time his palm came down to rub her gently afterwards.

“That’s it. Do you feel that?”

She did.

“Do you need more?”

She nodded, wondering if the sensation and understanding had further to evolve within her. He gave her another and she barely responded. It was as if the pain was now accepted and harnessed within her, radiating and transforming. She could feel herself getting wet, especially from the gentle caresses that followed. It seemed to consolidate the intention. That it was an extreme form of stimulation above anything else and that it wasn’t malicious. If anything it was caring, as the level of trust was higher than she’d ever allowed before.

He administered the final one and she slumped heavily over him; even her eyelids and tongue felt like they’d been slapped. “Thank you, sir,” she murmured thickly.

“You did very well, Dr Granger.” His rich voice oozed into her creamy crevices like caramel topping. “And because you allowed me to do what was needed, I’m going to show you what that level of acceptance and trust has done to your body.

He trailed the hand that had been gliding gently over her throbbing cheeks down between them, sliding across her puckered entrance before delving two fingers into her dripping opening.

“Do you hear yourself, Dr Granger?” he murmured, thrusting rhythmically into her channel, making it squelch with each rapid insertion and slow withdrawal. “Maybe we have found your ‘thing.'”

Hermione’s face was warm and throbbing like her cheeks and the sound of him stirring her honey pot made it even moreso. His fingers slid purposefully along her walls and she felt his thumb rubbing along her perineum, the lubrication from her vagina spilling out to assist the process.

“Tell me what you want, Dr Granger.”

The use of her professional title in this setting made her insides squirm even more.

“I want you to make me come, sir.”

“And what if I don’t?”

“I’ll do it myself, sir.”

“What would you prefer? My hand or yours?” His fingers pumped into her more deeply just to emphasise the point.

“Yours,” she groaned in response.

“Why?”

“Because . . . because your hand knows what I need more than mine does.”

“Very good.” She thought she even heard the trace of a smile in his voice. “Open your legs wider, we’re going to do this here.”

She wriggled her legs apart, then felt him spread his own thighs further to give his other hand access to her hyper-sensitised clitoris, which had been abrading against his trouser leg the whole time. With two sets of digits pushing in opposite directions, he set to work stimulating her both internally and externally. Her clitoris and labia were kneaded together in a mash of swollen flesh, while three fingers delved into her slurping passage.

She clawed at the carpet for traction as her hips rocked of their own accord, riding the fingers inside her and rubbing against the ones now jiggling her clitoris with a rapid sideways action.

“Uuuhhhh,” she moaned as she felt the tension already mounting inside her.

“Tell me how you feel,” his voice was tight with the effort of his movements.

“It feels like you’re going to make me explode,” she panted. “It could get messy.”

“I hope so.” His creamy voice added to her sloshing lubrication and she almost couldn’t believe that her own body could make such a racket.

“Gods!” Her head bucked forward as she felt his thumb sliding along her slick crevice and pressing into her anus with each thrust. He was alternating between massaging her clitoris and rubbing it frantically, and when he started on the next set of rapid-fire jiggling, it pushed her over the edge.

She cried out, her head arching into the air at the same time as her legs kicked out with the onslaught of her orgasm. Her vocalisations continued with every convulsion as she jerked and writhed across his strong thighs. Somehow he managed to keep his hands on and inside her as she erupted around him, continuing to stimulate her throughout, wringing every contraction from her swollen channel, and a stream of juice from her pulsing urethra, coating his agitating fingers and spattering onto the floor.

“Unnh, unnh, unnh.” Even her breathing required effort as she tried to come down from what had felt like a demonic possession.

“Do I need to ask if you wish to continue?” Despite the deep breaths that laboured his voice, she detected a note of amusement.

“No sir,” she rasped. “I think that was quite emphatic.”

 

 


	11. Hand to Mouth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, if you’re enjoying this story or even if you’re not let me know either way. I’m always open to constructive criticism. :)

Naked, Hermione knelt on the carpet beside him, waiting for the blood to drain back into her body. He watched her with an expression that looked a lot like concern but, she decided, was probably more academic interest, than anything else.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

She tried to speak but couldn’t. Clearing her throat, she tried again. “Like I learned my lesson . . . sir.”

He nodded and she noticed a glint within his dark orbs. It was the third time she’d caught him amused in the past hour. Placing his hands on his knees, he leaned forward ready to rise, when she touched him. “I’d like to continue . . . with the other part of our arrangement.”

Eyeing her hand, he lowered himself back onto the bed. He didn’t look completely comfortable with the proposition but she hadn’t expected him to.

“I’d like you to focus on remaining as relaxed as possible.”

Unlike his instructive approach, she felt that if she tried to talk to him throughout, she would be met by a barrage of derisive snorts and eye-rolling so she thought it best to just state her position up front and allow her actions to speak for themselves.

Taking her wand from the chair, she stood and brought it to the neck of his frock coat, releasing the buttons one by one, top to bottom. His wary eyes didn’t leave hers and she half expected him, at any moment, to pull his coat together and storm from the room. But he didn’t. And she continued to trail the wand slowly down his front until the last button was released.

“Please remove your coat,” she instructed.

She dropped the ‘sir’. It didn’t seem right with this shift in their power dynamic. He stared at her for a long moment before finally relenting, pulling his arms free and tossing the coat aside on the chair. It was then that she noticed the tenting of his trousers. Clearly he’d enjoyed the spanking more than he’d let on. That must be a good sign.

Returning the wand to his throat, she released the buttons of his shirt, allowing them to ripple open down to his navel. She might have continued in the same manner with his lower shirt buttons but, by that stage, all she really wanted to do was touch him and the wand was becoming an object of distance. Putting it aside, she slowly, carefully, climbed onto the bed, straddling his thighs, before lowering herself onto his lap.

His jaw tensed and his shoulders straightened as she placed a hand on the pale skin of his breast bone. His heart was galloping. Clearly, he wasn’t afraid of sex. This must be about control. No doubt, he normally took the lead and this was taking him way outside of his comfort zone. As she watched the tension in his brow, and the distrustful look in his eye, she suddenly had the overwhelming urge to pull him to her chest, to cradle him in her arms and let him know she wasn’t another person he would have to survive. That she desperately wanted to help him. But since the intimacy would likely be too much even for her, it would probably cause him to implode, so she settled for trailing her fingers down his abdomen, watching it ripple and clench with his quiet exhalations.

At his navel, she grasped the fabric of his shirt and slid it out from where it was tucked into his trousers. He joined in watching her small hands as she undid each remaining button until the white fabric hung open. Despite the relatively narrow window of flesh that was visible, she could already see a number of lumpy scars marring his body. There was a good chance that these added to his misgivings, so she decided not to take his shirt off completely—aware, again, of how tenuous their interaction was.

As her hands slid down to the top button of his trousers, she saw the flare of his nostrils, like a horse about to bolt. Halting in her movements, she waited until his breathing seemed to normalise before continuing. Finally pulling the buttons apart, she found a pair of black satin boxer shorts, stretched around the hard contours of his erection.

Locking her eyes on his, letting him see her intentions as clearly as possible, she gently grasped the shaft of his cock through its tight satin skin. As it twitched beneath her hand, a fleeting grimace flickered across his lips. Sliding her fingers up to the damp patch at his bulging head, she felt his breath hitch and waited, again, for the rhythm to return, knowing that if he became too uncomfortable he would simply leave.

“I’m going to take these down now,” she murmured.

He didn’t respond. Taking his silence as acquiescence, she climbed back off the bed before grasping his trousers and boxers and tugging them down. He assisted by lifting himself fractionally off the bed until his cock sprang free, tapping against his abdomen, once, twice, like a pendulum. Not one to ever particularly think about the quality of men’s cocks she was, again, surprised to find herself so entranced by his. Of course she knew the anatomy of male and female genitalia inside out but she didn’t find herself regarding his with the sort of clinical detachment she might have hoped. Instead, she discovered that she suddenly desired its teachings in as many different ways as possible. And if he’d been wondering what her plans for it were, she felt she might have given them away the moment she knelt between his legs.

As her hands slithered up his bare thighs, he swallowed audibly before releasing a tight grunt as she closed around his silken shaft. Keeping one hand on his thigh, she gradually slid the other over the taut skin of his cock, causing his fingers to curl into the bedcovers.

She suspected he was itching to grab her. To wrestle back control. To make this about her. But she continued to stroke him gently until his cock was fully engorged and straining toward him like a fleshy arrowhead, pointing to its owner. His chin was tilted forward and he regarded her with an, almost pained, expression. She could tell he was agonising over whether to adhere to their agreed conditions or to reassert himself, defusing the tension.  

She watched him carefully, aware that if she spoke he would dissect her in a flash. There were no words that could make him alright. Watching him swallow again, she took her chance. Pulling his cock slightly toward her she lowered her head and licked the soft warmth of his shaft, not wanting to overwhelm him by targeting his sensitive glans first.

His thigh felt rock-hard beneath her palm. Clearly, the ‘I want you to be as relaxed as possible’ instruction hadn’t quite filtered through. Running her lips up the side of his column, she lapped at it with her tongue and heard a soft groan escape him. His anxiety had rendered him so hyper-tuned to her actions and his own sensations, she didn’t expect for him to last long.

This was in stark contrast to when he was in the driving seat. When he took her against the tree, he demonstrated both the stamina and impulse control that indicated he could likely sustain sex for whatever duration he intended. Now, his cock was twitching and leaking, betraying a desire to be fulfilled which was, no doubt, killing him.

When she reached the ridge of his corona, she gently licked around the underside before venturing forth onto the silky helmet, trailing her tongue through the trickle of sticky juice pooled at the tip.

“Merlin!” he hissed through gritted teeth.

Slowly pumping him with her hand, she ventured a glance up and saw that he continued to watch her. She’d expected his eyes to be closed, either for the purposes of sensory enhancement or avoidance. He must be either enjoying the show or he still didn’t trust her.

This time, when she lowered her face back down, she took his entire head in the warm confines of her mouth.

“Uuhhhh,” he groaned, his hips flexing into her.

As she swirled her tongue over and around him, flicking into the slit with each pass, she grasped the base and squeezed more urgently.

And then she felt it, his hand on the back of her head. Only lightly, but there. His fingers gently curled into her locks as she pressed herself down over him, pushing his slick heat against the walls of her mouth and throat with her tongue before sucking back. Sliding her hand off his thigh, she scooped her fingers under his balls and attempted to massage them, but they were already so tight, wound up ready for release that she simply rubbed them between her fingers, priming them for ejection.

His breathing had become audible, each breath coming in a hissing moan as she flexed her hand up and down his shaft and bobbed her mouth rhythmically over his pulsing head. Then she began twisting around as she sucked on him and it was the torsional force that finally proved his undoing.

“Fuuuuucccck!” he grunted in a long heaving vocalisation that echoed off the walls of her small room.

As he clutched at her hair with both hands, she half-expected him to pull her away. But he didn’t. Instead he held her in place as he jerked and spasmed into her, his balls contracting as they squirted stream after stream of come against the walls of her mouth and throat. The groans from deep in his chest continued with each ejection, until his straining shaft had emptied its last pulse into her.

Letting his wilting cock pop free, she held his come in her mouth until her head was raised and she was looking him in the heavily-lidded black eyes. Then she swallowed. If he didn’t get that symbology then she would give up once and for all.

“Do you wish to continue?” she asked, her lips full and numb from their bruising journey up and down his cock.

Mouth propped open, he sucked in deep breaths as he stared at her. “Dr Granger, I believe your sex therapist title to be well founded.”

She couldn’t help the pleased smirk that twitched across her lips. Even if her practical experience was limited, it seemed that those years of anatomy study had paid off.

***

“I’ve finally succumbed to everyone’s demands for balloon games,” announced George. “I’ve been trying to hold off but it was becoming embarrassing trying to deter you all, so here they are as requested!”

Hermione grinned, he obviously knew it was going to be a hard sell and was going on the attack early.

The entire group stood in ‘the bath’, hands in coat pockets, looking like they would rather be inside by the log fire.

“One for you Mr Creevey.” George inserted his wand inside the end of the balloon and rapidly inflated it before tying it with a flick.

“I can see you’re particularly excited by this, Professor.” He nodded to Snape as he handed him a black balloon.

Snape peered down his nose, his lip twitching with what Hermione now interpreted, after multiple observations, as suppressed amusement.

George worked his way around the group, handing each a balloon before clapping his hands to silence the murmurs that had bubbled up.

“Now, I’m going to put you into pairs,” he said, pulling Dennis and Sarah into a space facing one another. He then dragged Pomona and Shaun to another spot. Hermione was paired with Lynch, Snape with Ellory, and the last person left for George to pair with was Emily, whom everyone now knew as Luna.

“This first game is called ‘press the flesh.’ Actually, it’s not called anything. I just made that up. But the aim is for you and your partner to pop the balloon using only your bodies. No pinching or biting. And that includes of the balloon. This is a race. The first couple to pop both their balloons will win a prize. Something . . . really . . . “ He shoved his hand in his front jeans pockets, then checked the back ones. “Anyway, it’s something that is just so utterly amazing, you should really try hard to win. Any questions?”

Luna raised her hand.

“Ms Lovegood?”

“What if you have severe burns all over your body and it’s painful to be touched pretty well everywhere?”

“Good question! Can everyone here with severe burns all over their body please raise their hands?”

Dennis raised his.

“Sarah please be careful with him will you?”

Sarah nodded dutifully.

George leaned towards Luna. “Is it really painful everywhere?”

“There’s actually one spot that isn’t painful,” she said quietly, “yet.”

George puffed out his cheeks and blinked. “Really . . . I might just have to . . . check on that . . . later,” he murmured.  

Luna gave Hermione a sly wink before turning back to him.

“We’ll work something out,” he said loudly, before addressing the rest of the group. “So now you know what you need to do. Let’s get started. Ready . . . set . . . go!”

Hermione turned to Lynch who gave her a shy nod. “I guess stomachs is probably easiest,” he said.

“Worth a try,” she agreed.

Inserting the balloon between their bodies, he put his arms around her and pulled her towards him. The balloon bulged but didn’t break. Hermione began to wonder if George had given them some of his trick balloons but then saw Snape insert his between his body and Ellory’s and give her a quick thrust that left her pop-eyed and her mouth hanging agape, the remnants of the balloon dropping to the ground between them. _Why wasn’t she surprised that he had a technique even for that._

“We’re going to have to do it a bit harder,” Lynch said, bracing his arms around her and pulling her to him. Her breasts squashed against his chest but it still wouldn’t work. _Fucking George_ , she thought. _He paired them on purpose_. And, looking around, she saw that he’d also paired everyone else quite deliberately.

Dennis and Sarah were laughing uncontrollably. They had clearly given up on the frontal squash method and he was now pushing the balloon against her back, looking very much like he was humping her.

“Give it to me, Shaun! Push it!” Pomona was shrieking as Shaun Mollison rammed his pelvis, unproductively, into hers. He exploded with laughter—the first Hermione had seen from him.

George was bent so far over Luna that it was hard to see what was going on with them. Hermione had absolutely no doubt that their particular engagement was one of George’s main reasons for choosing this particular ‘game’.

Ellory’s normally perfectly styled hair was now hanging in ragged locks around her face as she rammed herself against Snape. Hermione bit her lip trying not to laugh as Snape intently watched the tortured balloon, his mouth a grim line. She would give anything to know what he was thinking.

“You’re going to have to try harder than that.” Lynch shook his head.

She glanced at Snape before responding. “You mustn’t be clenching hard enough.”

“What do you mean, not clenching?” His lilting accent had always amused her. “This is as clenched as it gets,” he said, gritting his teeth.

“You’re clearly getting a bit soft in your old age.” She reached out and touched his abdomen. It was like a rock. “Okay, maybe not.”

“Perhaps you’re the one getting a bit soft, Dr Granger.” His voice was a little quieter as his hand slid down her stomach. Her breath caught as she saw Snape watching them from the corner of her eye.

“I think it might simply be a matter of technique,” Hermione muttered, before grasping him by the hips and pumping into him, busting the balloon with a quick bang.

Lynch stared at her. “Dr Granger.” He took the balloon from her fingers and placed it between them. “I think you might be right.”

“Bang!”

 

 


	12. Hands Up

“Imagining re-enacting the scene from ‘Ghost’?” George whispered in her ear, making her jump.

Hermione whacked him with the back of her hand. “You watch too many Muggle movies,” she muttered.

She hadn’t realised she’d been staring at Snape as he moulded the lump of clay with his strong, supple hands. Shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, he dipped his fingers into a bowl of water before sliding them along the creamy ridgeline of what seemed to be shaping into a small pot.

“I could sing ‘Unchained Melody’ if that would help,” George murmured.

“Shut it,” Hermione hissed, turning away to watch what was happening in the rest of the room.

Luna and Shaun were exercising on mats in the far corner. Luna was stretching her calves, while Shaun did push-ups beside her. Hermione had noticed that his ticking and convulsing had significantly abated—as though the curse were slowly ebbing from his body. And he also seemed to be smiling a lot more. Whether he had greater control over his facial muscles, or was genuinely happier, Hermione couldn’t tell, but he now seemed far younger; like the man of thirty that he was. 

“Imagining re-enacting the scene from ‘Dirty Dancing’?” she whispered to George, as she caught him staring at Luna.

“I wouldn’t be strong enough to hold her up,” replied George.

“Not that scene.” Hermione snorted.

George gave a loud sigh. “Upholding therapist-patient boundaries can also be a real bitch.”

Hermione remained silent. She could hardly comment.

“It’s lucky ‘therapy’ has such a broad definition.” He grinned, crossing his arms as he continued to watch Luna’s progress.

“Don’t tell me . . . “ Hermione leaned close to him.

“I may have undertaken a ‘Luna landing’ of sorts.” He raised his eyebrows without looking at her.

Hermione shook her head. _What was it about this group?_ _And what were they running here? The Galladdon Knocking Shop?_

“And you, my girl, must realise that you are standing in an extremely transparent glass house, with a handful of very big stones.” George nodded toward Snape.

She wondered how he knew. And how much he knew.

Hermione crossed her arms and sidled up next to him. “Let’s assume that you aren’t barking up the wrong tree for a change,” she spoke quietly. “Why, then, would you pair me up with Lynch in the balloon groping session?”

George ran his tongue down the inside of his cheek as if he were thinking but Hermione knew he would have planned it very carefully. “I thought you and Lynch might have a few things to work through.”

“Really,” Hermione responded drily.

“And I couldn’t be sure of what type of display you and Snape might put on if you were paired up. By the way, you are really going to have to remember to cast a silencing spell next time you have another ‘session’ in your rooms.”

“Fuck,” Hermione hissed, her fingers digging into her arms. “Are you serious?”

“Have I ever been serious?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, getting a straight answer out of George was like getting a smile out of Snape.

“So how did you know?”

“By the way you drool out of every orifice every time he stalks past.”

“For fuck’s sake, George,” Hermione huffed. He was making her paranoid. “Is that seriously why?”

“No, Luna told me.”

“What?”

“She saw you giving him mouth to snake resuscitation when she was exercising. She said she had to get close to the window to see through the crack in the curtains but she managed it.”

“Merlin’s fucking arsehole!” Hermione hissed, eyes bulging in mortification.

“Dr Granger that is hardly language becoming of a medical professional.”

“And neither is sucking off the patients,” she ground out through gritted teeth.

“True.”

“George . . . “

“Who would I tell?” He spread his hands wide. “There’s only Lynch and Ellory, and all the other patients, and McGonagall and everyone at Hogwarts and anyone else I happen to bump into.”

“George,” she groaned.

“Hermione, I’m just glad you’re finally getting a bit of action. I haven’t heard you swear this well in years.”

A reluctant smile finally crept onto her lips as she took a sideways glance at Snape who was now carving some sort of design around the edge of the pot. She trusted George but they would have to be a lot more careful in the future.

She didn’t need to remind herself that their relationship was inappropriate. That was a given. But, she reasoned, they both had more to gain from their current arrangement, than the sanctioned dynamic that should preside. At least, she hoped so.

Then she remembered something else she’d been meaning to discuss with George.

“I’d like you to get Snape on the piano when he’s next in here,” she said.

“Is he any good?”

“I’m not sure but I suspect so. I want him to use the piano to connect with, and express, his emotions.”

“Great.” George rolled his eyes. “What are we going to get? Dirges and funeral marches?”

“He’s not that miserable,” replied Hermione. “He’s more anxious than anything.”

“Well, I don’t want him all ‘Flight of the bumblebee’ either,” said George.

“He won’t be,” Hermione assured him. “Not after I’ve finished with him anyway.”

***

“This actually really hurts.” Hermione was kneeling, naked, on her bed with her hands suspended by a red cord above her head.

Snape looked up from the book he was reading. “You have your safe word if you need to use it.”

Hermione glared at him. “I know.” She suddenly winced as she felt her shoulder cramping. “I just don’t quite understand your attitude.”

Snape slowly closed the book before leaning forward in his seat to fix her with his searing gaze. “You have been disrespectful and controlling. You have not addressed me as ‘sir’ once. And I was particularly unimpressed with your attempts to create some sort of tension by flirting with Mr Quidditch. If you are not going to take these lessons seriously, then neither am I.”

Hermione’s arms were aching from her shoulders to her fingertips but she was determined not to prove him right.

“I’m sorry sir,” she replied, trying to relax. “I do want to learn. And I know you can teach me.”

Snape appraised her silently for so long she was thinking about using her safe word, just to get some blood flowing back into her arms.

“Tell me why you are bound.”

“So that I will submit, sir.”

“Partly.”

She tried to think of another answer but nothing else came to mind, she was too busy worrying about the pain.

Snape sighed. “What do you want from me?”

“To get me down from here, sir?”

“Anything else?”

“To get me off, sir?”

“Correct.”

And for some reason that understanding, when it finally filtered through, made the coals in her belly suddenly flare.

“Please sir, can you touch me?”

After a long pause, Snape finally gave an approving nod and threw his book to the floor before standing and wandlessly opening the buttons of his coat. His deliberate and emphatic disrobing created a surge of excitement that shot through her, leaving her legs trembling. Rolling up his shirtsleeves, he finished by unbuttoning his collar then casually kneeling on the bed beside her.

“Where do you wish to be touched?” His voice, low and gravelly, slipped into every orifice.

She wanted to say ‘everywhere’ but knew she needed to be specific.

“On my breasts, sir,” she said.

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to . . . lick . . . my nipples, sir.” Her head tipped back and she closed her eyes, her cheeks flushing pink with hearing herself ask for such a thing.

“Since you finally seem to have remembered your place. I will grant your request,” he rumbled darkly.

Eyes still closed she felt his warm breath glide across her skin. It moved from her collar bone, down under her armpit and along the side of her breast. Her skin prickled with anticipation. And then his tongue, soft and moist, alighted on the areola of her left nipple. It was so exquisite and at such sensory odds with the humdrum existence that had become her life that she moaned like a wanton slut. This was going to be tough. She decided then that she might have to give up on any pretence of maintaining a professional decorum. Holding on to her sanity might actually be enough to hope for. And, yes, she had remembered to cast the silencing . . .

“Fuck!”

His hand skimmed down her bare back as his tongue hooked up under her nipple, flicking it with force. It wasn’t a soft, sensuous licking, like a grooming cat—not that she had necessarily imagined that from him—instead it was an intensely stimulating act that she knew was designed to achieve maximal arousal. And, Merlin, did it work. Hermione’s head was alternating between bent servitude and raised elation with each unsuccessful attempt to process what he was doing to her.

When he’d finished, releasing one taut, stretched nipple with a wet, pop, she was heaving and wondering if there might already be a pool of juice soaking the bedspread beneath her parted thighs. The very thought was enough to mortify her further but it also added to the pull in her abdomen—the force that seemed to be both sucking the dripping desire from her core and attempting to suck every part of him into her. The void there seemed cavernous, not for the size, but for the level of need that it signified. She found herself desperate to be fulfilled.

“Sir, can you please touch my pussy?” The foreign whine in her voice shocked her. And so did her use of the word ‘pussy’.

Finally opening her eyes, she found his face closer to hers than she could ever remember. She could see every detail of it, every thoughtful crease, every perceptive ridge, every exertion-induced shimmer, but what she honed in on were his lips, moist and plump from servicing her nipples. She found herself wanting to bite them. It seemed excessive. But at that moment, she was so desperate that the need for him outweighed any natural decency. The time for politeness had well and truly passed. And because she was tied and couldn’t touch him, she felt that, should he accidentally venture into her vicinity, like a territorial animal she would ravage him.

He didn’t respond. He simply watched her. She could feel his eyes trailing over every contour of her need, sizing it up, revelling in its vastness. She felt so exposed, so incapable of concealment that she wanted to look away but, again, the knowledge that he knew her desires so deeply was also comforting and, ultimately, highly erotic. The barriers were crumbling in large chunks, like the beginnings of an avalanche.

Those lips were still there. He let them fall apart as if he were about to speak but he didn’t. The groan that they elicited stayed reverberating in her chest, never making its way out because there was nothing to pin it to. He hadn’t actually done anything. It was pure yearning and it was almost more than she could bear.

“Tell me . . . what . . . you . . . want.” His words, each an obsidian nugget, slid into her, lodging in her nether regions.

She felt like she was drowning and he was the only one who could save her, the only one who knew how. And the urgency that she felt drove her mind beyond what probably should have been the next step in their interaction. She was clearly cutting to the chase.  

“I want you to tongue fuck me, sir,” she breathed.

 _Oh Gods! Where had that come from?_ The words echoed in her ears. It was a stranger. A stranger who knew what they wanted and who wasn’t afraid to ask. It wasn’t her. But she was sort of glad they had asked on her behalf. It was true, after all.

He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. It was as if he had been waiting for it. A breakthrough of sorts.

When he opened them again, he asked, “Do you want to come in my mouth?”

That mouth. She clenched her jaw. It was too exquisite to consider soiling with whatever juices he planned to draw from her. But, then again, she had done the same for him without a lot of thought. She hadn’t considered it but perhaps he might enjoy doing the same from her. _And did she want it?_ The animalistic ravaging that had crept into her masturbation fantasies every evening since it had happened, and often woke her in the small hours for a second round, told her that she did want it.

“Yes, sir.”

One corner of his mouth curled into what she could only interpret as a smile. It shocked her more than anything else. There was no element of snidery or amusement. It seemed like he was pleased, almost compassionate.

“Well done, Dr Granger,” he murmured. “And will you remain bound?”

She understood it now. The power of being at his mercy. She couldn’t feel her hands and she didn’t care. They were a means to an end for her at that moment. Of course she would remain bound.

“Yes, sir.”

He gave a gracious nod before sliding backwards off the bed and walking around behind her. Not entirely sure of what he was planning, she sensed the bed behind her sagging with his weight before feeling the warmth of his hands on either side of her waist and his lips near her ear.

“You are mine now.” His voice was low and husky. “To do with as I wish.” He held the end of the word, letting it flutter against her cheek.

Simultaneously, his hands slid up over her ribs then pushed forward to cup both breasts, fingers locking onto her nipples and rolling them expertly. She let out a child-like whimper.

“Your body will do exactly as I intend.” His tongue flicked into her ear and she felt every hair on her head extruding like play dough. “And you will not interfere with its expression. Do you understand?”

Her head pitched back as he pulled on each nipple and she felt herself now resting on his shoulder, her face partially obscured in his curtain of black hair. She trusted him completely and wanted to please him with how well she could follow his instructions.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good girl.” She felt the smooth tip of his nose grazing up the arched line of her neck to her chin, as one hand slid down her abdomen before delving directly into her slit and jostling her clitoris.

“Uhhhh,” she groaned, pushing her hips into him. Continuing to milk her nipple with the other hand, he slipped his fingers down further, dipping in to sample her saturated slot.

“Dr Granger, you didn’t think you could hide this from me did you?”

She shook her head, embarrassed by the revelation.

“Did you really think you needed all of this? What were you hoping to fit in here?”

The insinuation made her blush and squirm.

“It’s perhaps lucky that I’m . . . hungry.”

Her lips fell apart as she sucked in deep breaths, trying to stop herself from fainting.

“Open your legs further.”

She lifted her head from his shoulder and rocked her knees apart, feeling him withdraw.

Her locked arms suddenly dropped a few inches from where he had magically fixed them. Then he reappeared between her legs. All she could see was the top of his head and his coal-black eyes. Arms hooking around her thighs, he pulled her down until her pussy was clamped against his face.

Grasping the cord between both hands, she clung onto it as his head rocked beneath her, his tongue swirling around and flicking over her straining clitoris.

“Gods!” she cried, her hips grinding into him. Pulling her forward he worked his tongue down through her inner lips until it was at her creamy opening before delving inside.

“Oh, oh, oh!” A high-pitched warble floated around her, strangely disembodied, but she had a feeling it was hers.

As his face shook from side to side, his nose rubbed against her clitoris and his tongue twisted along her walls in a symphony of sensation that was threatening to send her into meltdown.

Her thrusting synchronised with his movements and he released her thighs, bringing his hands into play. Pushing her up a little he slid two fingers inside her slick sheath, facing her front wall, while his mouth moved back to her clitoris, sucking the swollen nub between his lips and tongue.

“Merlin, that’s . . . uuhhhh,” she groaned and her head pitched forward as his tongue flicked rapidly back and forth across the head of her clitoris, his fingers thrusting rhythmically inside her tight channel like well-oiled pistons.

The muscles of her pelvis had wound so tightly that it was almost painful and the pressure that was bearing down inside her, had her floating mind suddenly slamming back to reality with the frighteningly intense sensation of her impending explosion. Her channel was squelching noisily around his plunging fingers, and when he curled them forward and began rubbing against her bumpy wall, agitating her urethra, she felt herself plummeting.

“I can’t hold on.” She shook her head. “Uuunnnhhhh . . . . I’m coming!”

He suddenly moved his tongue down from her clitoris to prod at her urethral opening and she was gone, bucking like a rodeo rider.

His jiggling fingers were caught in the violent wave of contractions that captured her whole body as she jerked around from her tethered arms. Crying out as her tightly wound muscles heaved and spasmed, she felt streams of juice squirting from her core in a release that felt so complete she was unable to hold back even if she had wanted to.

She could hear him gulping through his ragged breaths and this sound, together with the continued thrusting of his fingers had her feeling like she was coming all over again. Her muscles kept ripping and grabbing at him for such a protracted time she wasn’t sure when her orgasm had ended and when her clenching channel had progressed into its stuttering aftershocks.

Suddenly aware that she had collapsed on top of him and that he may be having trouble breathing, she lifted herself on shaky legs and he took the opportunity to slide out from under her.

Groaning with each wheezing breath, she hung off her binds, aware that she was going to be in quite a deal of pain when her arms were released. Then he was back behind her, strong hands around her wrists, gently lowering her forward onto the bed and removing the cord. Her groans turned into sobs as the significance and force of her release captured her.

“You did very well,” he soothed as she felt him massaging something cool and wet into her wrists, hands and, then, arms. The ache there immediately dissipated but she didn’t stop weeping into the bedcovers. He continued to rub and stroke her until her sobs had turned into shuddering sighs. Finally, she rolled over to look up at him.

“I’ve never told anyone this.” Her voice was thin and raspy. “The whole time that Bellatrix was carving ‘Mudblood’ into my arm, she was masturbating me.”

Snape closed his eyes, suddenly understanding everything—submission, pain, degradation, sex, fear.

“Fuck.”

 

 


	13. Backhander

“Mr Mollison, is it okay if I call you Shaun?”

His wavy brown hair was still damp from his morning shower. “Of course,” he nodded.

“Did you shave yourself today, Shaun?” It was the first time Hermione had seen him without his reddish facial hair.

“All by myself.” He smiled at his own self-deprecation.

“You must be feeling a lot better.”

“Well, if I’d tried it when I first arrived I would have been at risk of slashing my own throat.”

Hermione nodded. There had been very little he was capable of upon his arrival. Even eating had been difficult.

“How is your training going?”

“Good. I’m feeling stronger every day. Luna’s been great. She’s a huge motivator. Even if she is threatening to wipe the floor with me.” He gave a small chuckle. “I wouldn’t be doing this if it weren’t for her.”

Hermione was struck, again, by how calm he looked now that the tics and convulsions of the Cruciatus were barely marring his features. The mirror treatment and physical therapy seemed to be working remarkably well. And it was this that had her in two minds about whether it would be beneficial to attempt to address the source of his guilt. She decided to take a slightly circuitous route.

“Tell me your thoughts on voyeurism.”

He studied her for a moment before shrugging. “Isn’t that the world’s new fascination? A sick and sordid interest in other people’s lives? Muggle reality television? Social media?”

“But that’s not so much of a problem for the Wizarding World is it?”

“Isn’t it? Why does everyone indulge in that pathetic rag, the _Daily Prophet_? For the riveting news items or the trumped up reports on people’s private lives? I’ve been thinking that it won’t be long before we get our own versions—‘FaceParchment’? or ‘SkeeterFeed’?”

Hermione laughed, surprised by his wit. She was also more than aware of the growing nexus between the Muggle and Wizarding worlds. No doubt he was right.

“You said ‘sick and sordid interest’. Does it have to be?”

He shrugged again. “You tell me.”

It was a good point. Could sick and sordid be used to describe an entire societal predilection?

“Do you think watching others for sexual gratification is wrong?” Hermione leaned back in her seat.

“Is it any different to watching others for emotional or intellectual gratification?”

She considered his words.

“Or worse, to revel in other people’s tragedies.”

“Is that what we do?”

“Of course. We watch other people’s lives to make us feel better about our own. We watch other people’s sadness to be glad that we don’t have to experience it ourselves. Is that more honourable than wanking over someone beautiful when they’re unaware of it?”

Hermione chewed her lip before responding. “You don’t seem to harbour any guilt about that, Shaun. Can you tell me what the source of your discontent is?”

A sudden spasm captured him. It was as though her words had woken the sleeping Cruciatus, causing it to rear its ugly head.

“It’s . . . “ His face twisted. “It’s the irresponsibility—the disconnect from the object of desire. It allows you to feel less about them than you should—a type of . . . selfishness.”

Hermione felt like she almost understood what he was saying but that she didn’t have enough detail. If only he could . . .

He shook his head violently. “I’ve got to stop . . . talking about it. It . . . It’s not good for me.”

Hermione suddenly felt guilt-ridden, herself, concerned that she may have set back his progress.

“I’m sorry Shaun. I shouldn’t have . . . “

“No. You have a job to do Dr Granger. I . . . ” He grimaced. “I respect that.”

She let out the breath she automatically seemed to hold when watching his contortions. Although grateful for his reassuring words, she didn’t feel deserving of his respect, not as he writhed before her in pain.

***

“Tell me your thoughts on voyeurism.”

Luna smiled. Since she’d stopped wearing her head garment, her facial expressions had become much more evident. Hermione found herself piecing together more and more elements of her old friend, like a holographic puzzle, each time they met up.

“George said he’d told you about my spying,” Luna responded without embarrassment. “When you can’t participate in life, watching people who can is sometimes enough.”

“But you are participating. More and more every day.”

“I am. But there are things that I will never do. And ways that I will never be. Hermione, I’m scarred for life and I’ve accepted that.” Luna’s silvery eyes were wide and seemed almost omniscient to Hermione in that moment. “But it has made me even more determined to experience the beauty in life, even if I can’t add to it in the ways that I want to.”

Luna put her hand on Hermione’s knee. “I can’t tell you how uplifting it was to watch you and Professor Snape. Two exquisitely beautiful creatures finding pleasure in one another. It was like art, Hermione. Not at all sordid or dirty. I felt alive watching you—that life can go on and I can still enjoy it. You asked my thoughts on voyeurism? For me it feels like a blessing. To be able to live vicariously is better than not being able to live at all.”

In the past, Hermione knew that she would have had difficulty accepting what Luna was saying. Her embarrassment about being caught in such a compromised position, performing a lewd act on a patient, would have had her retreating into herself and battening down the hatches against the fallout. But her overwhelming sense, now, was one of empathy. And it wasn’t just for Luna, it was for Shaun, too. She understood them.

Luna gave her an encouraging smile. “And I want to watch you both again.”

“Oh . . . “

***

Snape sat opposite her for the first time. As soon as he’d entered her office, he’d made his way to the chairs in the corner, taking one so that she could take the other, their knees hovering only an inch or two apart. She’d not wanted to talk to him any further after her confession the previous day—too drained, both physically and emotionally, to consider it. Now he watched her quietly. She could sense he was giving her time and space to speak, but for some reason she couldn’t work out how to begin.

“Lynch has agreed to let you use the kitchen during the day to brew for Luna,” she said. “Or to make anything else you might need.”

Snape nodded.

Hermione returned her gaze to the paper on her lap, staring at the blank lines. Then she sighed heavily. “I don’t regret anything we have done so far. On the whole, it has been helpful for me. I can already feel that it has changed my outlook even though, as you can imagine, it has been difficult.”

Snape drew a finger along his upper lip as he listened.

“I don’t want our arrangement to change,” she continued. “And I don’t want you to approach me any differently. There is a good reason I am the way I am. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to change.”

He inhaled deeply, a concerned frown furrowing his brow.

“Are you comfortable to continue as we have been?” She fixed her brown eyes on him.

He paused before responding. “Had I been aware of your past, I would not have approached you at all. To force you to address your trauma in the way that we have, if I had been aware, would have been unconscionable. As it is, I still have reservations.”

Hermione nodded. “I understand and I’m honestly grateful for your concern. Perhaps we need some time to consider how best to move forward with my teachings. In the meantime, I would like to continue with your treatment under our current arrangement.”

He tensed a little but didn’t mount any objection. So she continued.

“I’d like you to ejaculate during sexual intercourse.” She looked at him directly, aware that she needed to show a degree of conviction in this dynamic.

He crossed his arms and cleared his throat. “What type of intercourse?”

“Your choice.”

It was important for her to provide him with some options so he didn’t feel completely manipulated or trapped.

“Internal or external ejaculation?”

“Again, you can choose.”

He raised his chin and peered at her. “Now?”

“Umm.” She looked at her watch. “Yes, my slot is pretty free.”

***

Hermione rolled her face to the side and spat the hair from her mouth. She shouldn’t have been surprised that he’d chosen this position. Face-down on the bed, she couldn’t make eye contact with him, reducing the intimacy. And, if she’d pegged him right, she would find him pulling out before the end. It would be interesting to see where and how he chose to ejaculate.

Right now, his hand was in the middle of her back, pushing her down as he slid into her with smooth strokes. She was, however, becoming less concerned about her head being buried in the mattress, as it happened to feel decidedly incredible and he was hitting all sorts of spots inside her that made her want to scream into the bedcovers. Instead, she settled for just moaning and trying to breathe.

He was very quiet except for the occasional grunt as he slammed into her. She wanted to hear more and so pushed back into him, squeezing her pelvic floor muscles. There was a gasp and a groan, then he picked up the pace.

“Fuck,” she hissed into the mattress. That had backfired. Actually, to be honest it was exactly what she'd wanted.

One of his large hands grasped the flesh around her hip bone while the other slid around and slotted down between her legs to massage her clitoris.

“Uuhhhh,” she moaned, feeling the tension winding up inside her. The depth of his penetration had him butting into her cervix, shaking the foundations of her restraint with each thrust.

As he rammed into her, his balls slapped against her backside and she heard his breathing turn ragged. The hair hanging over her face billowed with each of her breathy moans and she knew she was close.

His fingers jiggled at her clitoris as he pulled her into him on each stroke, squeezing an extra few millimetres of straining cock into her clenching channel.

“Gods!” Her voice was muffled by the bedcovers as she began to convulse. Her pussy pulsed and jerked around his ramming cock, squeezing and sucking at him, encouraging his balls to follow suit. He continued to batter her, making her head bounce against the bed as he strummed her clitoris. Then, riding the spasmodic tics of her sheath at increasing speed, she suddenly heard him grunt and felt him pull out.

There was a long drawn-out hiss as she felt his warm come spattering over her lower back and running down between her cheeks. And then his hand followed, rubbing his seed into her skin as his laboured breathing gradually receded.

She needed to see his face. As she rolled over, he collapsed on top of her and she saw the surprise in his black eyes. Before she knew what she was doing, she lunged up and captured his lips within hers.

A split second later, his hand was on her jaw, holding her down.

“That . . . was not part . . . of our . . . agreement.” His chest billowed against hers in agitation.

“I’m sorry,” she replied in small voice.

Pushing himself away, he dressed in a wandless flourish before disappearing out the door.

***

Hermione stumbled down the path to the river, a confused whirlwind of thoughts sailing through her mind. She’d dressed hurriedly and tried to follow him but he’d gone. Now she just needed air. And the solace of running water.

Before she’d rounded the final bend she heard a shout, followed by laughter. The view that met her was surprising to say the least. Dennis and Sarah were in the river. Dennis’ naked torso was as pale as the reflected autumn sky as he splashed Sarah who ducked under the water and rose, moments later, behind him. They must have been freezing but there was no sign of discomfort as they leapt and splashed about.

“Dr Granger, come in!” Dennis beckoned when he caught sight of her on the river bank.

Hermione shook her head. “You must be freezing.”

“It’s a little chilly,” he laughed. “Can you cast a warming spell on us?”

Hermione grinned and pulled her wand from her pocket before casting spells on both of them.

“Ahhhh,” Dennis cried. “Warm as a bath!”

Hermione very much doubted it but Sarah nodded in agreement.

“Come on!” Dennis called out again. “It’s balm for the soul!”

Hermione laughed and was about to reply that she was too old. She was only twenty-seven. _Why did she feel so old? Why did she act so old? Where had her youth gone?_

“Fuck it,” she murmured under her breath before pulling off her coat and scarf. Sarah seemed to be only wearing her bra and knickers and Hermione pretty well only wore dark practical underwear (of course). Peeling off everything else, she cast a hasty warming spell on herself before heading to the water’s edge and, taking a deep breath, plunging in. Despite the warming spell, the water was icy when it first hit her. She had trouble drawing breath but then the heat settled around her and it became rather pleasant. Dennis was right, Hermione felt both refreshed and soothed as she was engulfed by the happy gurgle of the water.

Something grabbed her hand. “Isn’t it glorious?” Sarah sighed with a beatific smile, locking her fingers with Hermione’s.

“It is that.” Hermione returned the smile as they spun around before collapsing in the water.

Dennis climbed onto the bank before diving in and spraying water over them both. Splashing him in return, Hermione kicked away. She lay on her back, the world growing silent except for the bubbly whoosh of water lapping at her ears. The dark silhouettes of migrating birds tracked across the sky above her and then a bird, bigger than the rest, glided into view. It took a few moments before she realised what it was.

Lynch performed a weekly fly-over on his broom to check the area surrounding the Retreat. Sometimes he found animals in distress or trees that had blown over and blocked trails. Today, he found one of his therapists splashing around in the river with the patients on a cold autumn afternoon in her underwear. Slowly, he lowered the broom down to the riverbank before dismounting.

Hermione waded back to the bank and climbed out, wondering what he was going to say.

“Dr Granger,” he nodded, a note of amusement in his voice.

“Mr Lynch,” she said hurriedly, scrambling up the bank to her clothes. She’d somehow expected him to turn away since she was only clad in skimpy wet underwear. Instead, he watched her with interest.

“Are you looking to catch your death of cold?” he asked.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” she muttered, casting drying spells on herself before attempting to pull on her top.

“Ah, come here.” Suddenly she had Lynch’s coat draped around her shoulders as he picked up her bundle of clothes. With one strong arm he lifted her onto the front of the broom and took off.

He was a superb flyer and, despite her precarious position, she didn’t feel unsafe. Within half a minute they were back at the Retreat. Gently, he lowered them onto the path by the front door.

“Thank you.” She was secretly glad for the ride, as it had really started to cool down.

“You’re welcome m’lady,” he replied with a nod.

Hermione grabbed her clothes from him and turned.

Snape stood by the front door, one hand on the doorhandle.

“Professor,” she squeaked in surprise.

“Dr Granger.” His voice was low and even but his eyes burned her.  

Before she had a chance to respond, he pushed through the door and closed it.

Something that had been rolling around in her mind suddenly crystallised. That gesture earlier. Rubbing his come into her back. She hadn’t thought about its significance at the time but now she was confident she knew what it meant.

_Ownership_.

 

 


	14. Playing Their Hands

Hermione caught only rare glimpses of Snape over the following days. He didn’t join the rest of the group for meals, and in their staff meeting it was revealed that he had cancelled all of his scheduled therapy sessions. When Lynch closed his folder before leaving the meeting, and told them all to give Snape some space, Hermione wondered just how much interaction he and Snape might have had.

Meanwhile, she was still tying herself in knots trying to figure him out. There was nothing straight-forward about his presentation, whatsoever. Just when she thought she was on the brink of slotting all the pieces together, there was something that didn’t quite fit. His complexity shouldn’t have come as a surprise. He was the most intelligent person she had ever known, he had advanced skills in Legilimency, his understanding of human behaviour was exceptional, but he was also probably the most traumatised individual she had ever encountered.

What she knew of his past would have been enough to send most people spiralling into madness and yet he had remained astonishingly high functioning. Then there were the significant events that she didn’t know about; the missing pieces that might enable her to know him well enough to help him. But his recent behaviour suggested that sharing those moments might be a bridge too far. She was concerned that he had now shut himself off completely—erected the walls, disconnecting himself from his emotions and anyone who might have a chance of touching them.  

She also felt a deep, simmering anger. She’d shared with him one of her darkest secrets. It had unburdened her on some level but she’d also hoped that the revelation would have opened him up to her. Perhaps it had. But then her kiss. That kiss. Had undone it all.

Standing at the dining room window, steaming cup of tea in hand, she watched the swaying birch outside, clinging steadfastly to its last leaf. _If it held on, could it deny the changing of the seasons? Could it stave off the bitter onslaught of winter?_

Then she heard it. Instantly recognisable as the handiwork of someone devastatingly proficient. She hadn’t heard him play since his duet with Dennis but knew that, if she ventured into the adjoining room, he would be there, his elegant hands caressing the keys, the rising arch of his back leaning into the seething rumble of bass notes in their match of wills against the delicate tintinnabulation of the upper keys. The song was deeply sonorous, rolling and passionate but then turned melodic and achingly wistful. If she’d been worried that he’d lost connection with his emotions, it was instantly dispelled by what felt like a raw and impassioned plea.

Turning her back to the window, she slid down to the ground, staring into the empty room. She could hear the pain in his playing but also the hope. And as she brushed the tears from her cheeks, she wondered if she was the one who could deliver him from it, from wherever he had gone to hide.

Unable to face him at that moment, she returned to her rooms to wash away the misery that seemed to want to take up permanent residence on her face over the past days. Gazing into the mirror she wondered what she was doing, where she was going. She felt she was standing at a precipice, ready to tumble into something dark and unknown. The decision now was whether to jump or wait to be pushed.

Then she noticed something that squeezed her heart like a fist. On the windowsill stood a flower in a pot. It was a sunflower, magically sustained, and beaming yellow against the rays that filtered through the window; And the pot was clay, moulded by his hands. As she approached she noticed the decoration along the rim—swirly ‘S’ shapes. _What did they symbolise? Snakes? Slytherin? Severus Snape? Or the name that now seemed to inexplicably leap to mind whenever she thought about him, Sexy Mother . . ._ shit, she needed to find him _._

 ***

As she threw open the activities room door, he instantly halted and glanced around at her, a swathe of dark hair falling across his face, hands resting upon the keys.

“Keep playing,” she instructed, striding up to each window in turn and flicking her wand at it, causing the shades to drop until the room was almost completely dark. Then she locked and warded the doors. She didn’t want anyone seeing this. Even Luna.

As she flicked on lamps about the walls, his haunted gaze slid back to the keyboard and he resumed playing.

Approaching him slowly, she watched the shape of his hands as they glided, stroked and arched against the keys. It was mesmerising and exhilarating to behold someone so adept. Clearly the past eight years hadn’t been completely wasted. _Had this become his therapy?_

Rich, brawny chords reverberated through her chest while luxuriant melodies trickled over the top as she placed a hand on each broad shoulder, taut but oscillating rhythmically with the music. When she slid one hand into his neck and raked it up under his hair, she felt him instinctively push back into her. Grazing her fingernails against his scalp, she grasped a handful of hair before tugging his head gently to the side. His playing slowed, becoming hesitant as she touched the skin just behind his ear with the tip of her tongue.

Even over the tumbling cadence of notes she heard him groan, feeling the vibration of his larynx through her trailing tongue as it slid inexorably slowly down the side of his neck. When she reached his collar, her fingers crawled around to release the buttons at his throat while her lips alighted on the raised edge of the knotted skin that had almost become his portal to death. His hand was on her face, curling around her cheek into her hair, but she gently disentangled his fingers before guiding his palm back to the keys.

With a deep, shuddering sigh, he flexed his fingers against the ivory, continuing to form slow, soft chords as her feather-light kisses and warm breath soothed the tightness that had settled in his blighted tissues since the attack. As she worked her way around his neck, his head tipped back to allow her access and he continued playing with his eyes closed.

Her fingers flicked open the buttons of his coat and shirt, trailing down his chest as her tongue licked over his larynx, drawing another tight groan that she felt buzzing into her open mouth. Releasing the final buttons below his navel, she dragged her hands up from his abdomen to his bare chest, placing them on the pectoral muscles that rippled and shifted under his pale skin as he played. Like the strings of the piano that vibrated when struck by each key, she felt the sinews and fibres of him similarly humming with each note played.   

Then her fingers delved down, grazing his nipples in slow, sinuous circles before she grasped both tight nubs between her damp fingertips, simultaneously leaning forward and nipping at the soft flesh of his earlobe.

He hissed and strained forward, fumbling across the keys before resuming his flawless playing. Chewing at the smile on her lips, she straightened, keeping one hand on his shoulder as she stepped around to his side. Crouching, she crawled under his elbow, pushing his legs apart so she could squeeze between his arms, her back buzzing against the resonating keyboard. He continued to play blind, watching her from the shuttered darkness of his deep-set orbs as she held his shirt aside and leaned forward to flick the tip of her tongue across one caramel nipple. Feeling his cock jerk against her chest, she stroked it gently as though petting a restless animal.

With languorous, rhythmic strokes she moved against him, her tongue and lips working both straining buds until his long lashes fell closed again. Then both hands crawled to his trousers and pulled them open, releasing his silken cock, a fixture that was becoming as familiar to her as the nose on his face.

When she grasped him, his hands stuttered again across the keys before continuing more slowly. Twisting her fist slightly as she slid up his shaft, she drew a shimmering pearl of pre-cum to his head, squeezing just below the corona to keep it there before dipping down to lap it from his slit. A loud blast of air escaped his nostrils and she glanced up to see his brow furrowed as he attempted to concentrate on his playing while she fondled his velvety warmth.

Returning her mouth to the base, she nipped at his pulsing flesh, flicking her tongue out as she explored below her pumping fist which continued to slip up and down over his head. The trickle of notes had become agonisingly slow and she moved at the same tentative pace, licking and sucking at his soft flesh before sliding her fist back down and finally lowering her mouth over his head. Her tongue swirled around and over the taut ridges before she pulled back, releasing a burst of breath that contrasted so sharply with the heat of her mouth that it caused his thighs to jump around her and the piano keys to plink in shocked staccato.

Deciding that he’d had enough teasing, Hermione slid her mouth back onto him, weaving like a cobra as she engulfed what she could, her hand stroking away at the parts she couldn’t. A breathy grunt escaped him and his lower hand fluttered over the base notes as his other raked into her hair, massaging it in time with her slow bobbing movements up and down his cock.

Taking her time, she tickled along the seam with her tongue while sucking with her lips, releasing occasional wet slurps as she broke the seal, something that would have previously had her reeling in embarrassment but had now become insignificant in comparison to what had come before.

Squeezing his broad base more urgently with each upstroke, she felt his hips rocking against her and took the opportunity to slide her other hand into the dark confines of his trousers to cup his balls, already riding high in his clenching scrotum. Rolling the soft nuggets between her fingers, she heard his breaths turn into guttural grunts and knew he was close.

The hand on the keyboard played the same deep resonating notes emphatically, over and over while the hand in her hair clenched with each short upward thrust from the piano stool. Speeding up the rhythmic jerks of her fist, she dragged her lips over him, rocking from side to side as her tongue milked him with long squeezing strokes.

What started as a hiss between his clenched teeth, ended as a shout as the keys beneath his clenching fingers jangled erratically and he came with his head pitched forward, pulling her into him by the tangled curls.

Hermione’s swollen lips stayed wrapped around his member as it jerked and pulsed erratic jets of warm come into her throat. And it wasn’t until she could swipe the last drop away with her tongue that she released him with a sigh and leaned back, her neck aching from the tension. Looking up at him, she gulped down her salty mouthful and wiped her saliva-slicked lips on the back of her hand.

As his bare chest rose and fell in the shadow of his open shirt, his strong arms lifted her from between his legs. Her knees felt old and creaky. But before she could react, she found herself pulled into his lap, straddling his thighs as he wandlessly opened and discarded her shirt with a flourish. With equal flair, her bra followed and suddenly she was bare-chested, her full nipples hovering only millimetres from his parted lips.

Shivering with anticipation, she groaned as the hot cavern of his mouth suddenly closed over one throbbing pink kernel. Licking and sucking with the sort of abandon she had come to know, his breath burst from his nostrils only when the seal of her skin allowed it. She wrapped her arms around his dark locks, holding him tightly to her while grinding into his stomach until her breathy moans filled the air.

Just as suddenly as he had pulled her to him, he now pushed her away, casting a seam-splitting spell on her jeans and knickers before lifting her bare backside onto the keyboard with a discordant crash of notes. Leaning over her, dark eyes searing into hers, he carefully removed each of her boots, tossing them over his shoulders. Then, without breaking eye contact, he pushed the piano stool back with his foot before sinking slowly down onto it, now perfectly positioned to bury his face in her . . .

“Gods!” she cried, clanging along the keys with her flailing hands, attempting to find purchase.  

Feet braced against his shoulders, her head banged loudly against the piano case, making it hum in protest as he delved his tongue into her folds, ending with the jolting graze of his teeth against her clitoris.

“Uuhhh,” her breath choked out of her. She managed to grasp the carved wood on the side of the keyboard with her slippery fingers while burying the other in the mane of dark hair that now undulated with his lapping tongue. She felt so open to him, a fact verified by the way he slipped, one, two and then three fingers easily inside her lubricious pussy.

As she writhed around under him, the piano groaned and shuddered beneath her. Occasionally he would slam his free hand down on the keys, making the whole structure vibrate against her bare skin as his tongue simultaneously flicked around inside her lips.

Suddenly he sucked her swollen clitoris into his mouth and plunged his fingers so deeply into her that she held her breath, waiting for the sensation to subside. But it didn’t. It just kept building with each twist and thrust of his digits and the serpentine gyration of his head, sucking at her throbbing nub.

“Oh shiiiiiit!” She squeezed her eyes closed, thumping the piano again with her head. _She couldn’t squirt on the piano, imagine what would happen if . . . too late . . ._

“Unnnnhhhhh,” she wailed to the ceiling, as her backside bucked and crashed against the keys, her juices gushing over his chin and pumping fingers and dribbling down between the lengths of ivory. Her feet continued to shudder and convulse against his shoulders, her pussy sucking at him for wave upon wave of pelvis-twisting orgasm until she was numb and completely drained.

Then he pulled his fingers from her channel and stood over her, his face slick and shiny with her release. Instantly, she grabbed him around the neck and pulled him to her, locking her mouth on his. And this time he responded by sliding his tongue into hers, her juice and his residual come mixing in the intimate chamber that they now shared. Rolling and sucking, they devoured one another for minute after minute until they were both heaving and breathless.

Sliding his forehead down, he rested it against hers.

“Thank you.” His husky voice slid into her chest, filling her like the breath of life.

Her mind was too far gone to respond as she wanted.

Instead she replied with the few words she could string together.

“I enjoyed the . . . performance . . . sir.”

 

 


	15. In His Hands

“What happened to your face?”

Hermione stopped chewing and frowned at George. “What do you mean?”

“There’s something on it. I’m not sure what it is.” George slid into the seat opposite with his mug of coffee.

“Where?” Hermione wiped at her cheeks.

“Oh, wait a minute, I think I’ve worked it out.” He raised a finger. “It’s a smile. I just hadn’t seen one for a while. I didn’t quite recognise it.”

“Very funny,” she muttered, taking another bite.

“And by the way you’re devouring that banana, I think I might have worked out the source of your high spirits.” He winked, before folding his hands behind his head and grinning.

“George . . . “ Hermione murmured, a note of warning in her voice as her eyes flickered over to where Ellory stood, spreading marmalade on her toast.  

“Better nutrition,” he exclaimed loudly. “I knew you hadn’t been eating enough lately.”

Hermione shook her head, slitting her eyes at him, before popping the last of the banana in her mouth.

“Obviously you’re priming yourself for the mass trek up the mountain today.” He took a slurp from his mug.

She looked at her watch. “What time are we heading off?”

“Luna’s been ready since six but I think Lynch said ten.”

Hermione smiled. “Does she still think she can beat Shaun?”

“She’s been talking herself up,” he smirked. “But mainly to rib Mollison I think.”

“And what does he think?”

“You know Shaun. He’s a pretty quiet character—just smiles that thoughtful smile and seems pretty happy to go along with whatever she says.”

Hermione nodded toward him. “I think others could take a page from his book—learning to smile quietly and do whatever the woman says.”

George leaned forward over his mug. “I’ve been following her instructions to a T,” he murmured under his breath. “Where do you think I got this tongue blister from?”

She snorted and raised her hand. “Too much information.”

“So you don’t want to see the friction burns on my . . . “

“George!”

“Call yourself a sex therapist,” he muttered, grinning into his mug before taking another swig.

***

When Hermione entered the activities room just before 10am, everyone else was already there. While most were dressed in hiking gear, ready for the walk to the lookout, Snape stood, arms folded, wearing his usual formal black attire. His aloof demeanour still presided but Hermione could feel him watching her like a hawk as she moved around the room, making light conversation with the others.  

In the corner, Dennis and Sarah were sitting at the piano and Hermione could hear that he was teaching her ‘the lost song.’ It was such a beautiful, poignant moment that was only marred by Dennis’ sudden exclamation, “Hey George! There’s something wrong with the piano. The keys keep sticking.”

Hermione closed her eyes as a wave of mortification consumed her.

When she opened them, Snape was appraising her with his trademark smirk. It was the first time she’d seen it since he’d arrived at Galladdon. It was a good sign in terms of his progress but less so in terms of her embarrassment.

Drawing a deep breath, she crossed her arms and casually sidled over without looking at him.

“Is something amusing you, Professor?” she murmured, pretending to be interested in something out the window.  

“Just thinking about how much damage you’ll do next time.” His voice was so low that she could barely catch what he was saying.

“Next time?” She leaned in a little closer.

“Yes.” He turned ever so slightly toward her. “I intend to open up the case, transfigure it a little, and squeeze you down between the strings and the hammers, legs spread. Then every note I play will hit you . . . right where I want it to. Some of those chords progressions can get rather . . . intense,” he breathed. “But I thought ‘chopsticks’ might be the one to bring the house down . . . so to speak.”

Her hand stretched across her lips as she tried to cover her dropped jaw. She knew she shouldn’t have approached him. Now she was going to have to climb up the mountain and back with a gusset ‘as wet as a mermaid’s wet bits’, as George would say.

“Let’s hit the trail, you lot,” Lynch called as he opened the front door. “I understand there’s bragging rights at stake. My money’s on Ms Lovegood to take line honours.”

“Sorry Mollison,” Luna grinned. “But when you’re hot, you’re hot.”

Shaun smiled and gave a resigned nod.

Hermione let out a shaky breath and headed for the door. She knew Snape was watching her every movement and suddenly became aware of a definite hip-swing. _Was she doing it for him? Or had that changed too?_ ‘ _Damn it!_ ’ she thought. _He was right. She had had a fucking truncated gait._  

***

Everyone was in high spirits, talking loudly, as they sloshed through the leaves that blanked the forest floor. Luna led the way, wearing long sleeves, pants and a hat to protect her damaged skin from the sunlight which now poured through large breaks in the clouds, adding a gilt edge to the landscape. Hermione had been astonished by Luna’s progress, both physically and psychologically. Her sleep had improved considerably, her strength had increased with training, and she seemed to always be engaged in conversation with someone—often George who had her laughing constantly. And then there were her scars, which seemed to be undergoing a remarkable transformation. Whatever Snape was brewing for her, it was working wonders, allowing her greater freedom in her movement and, more importantly, freedom from constant pain. Shaun followed her. He was still terribly thin but, without the cruciatus wracking his body, he was able to walk with purpose, striding out confidently.

Hermione walked behind Dennis and Sarah. He was animatedly describing something to her and she was laughing and nodding in response. Hermione thought back to Dennis’ halting, apologetic speech pattern when he’d arrived. Now he was one of the most talkative of the lot. And although Sarah was still a woman of few words, when she did speak, it was usually considered and often profound. She and Dennis had become practically inseparable, their gentle and, somewhat, innocent energies, a therapeutic blend for the both of them.

Ahead of them were Snape and Sprout. He held branches aside for her to walk past, his voice too low to decipher, while she cackled and conversed loudly. They already knew each other well from their time at Hogwarts, but since arriving at Galladdon they seemed to have grown even closer, spending lengthy period of time walking and talking together. Hermione would often see them engrossed in conversation. _Were they the discussing Herbology? The past? His return to Hogwarts?_ Perhaps she would ask him at their next session.

Behind her, Ellory and Lynch spoke quietly as they walked together. Hermione realised that Ellory had been particularly reserved over the past week. _Had something happened?_ She was trying not to think of any link with Snape but he was so enigmatic and so determined not to be defined by convention that she couldn’t rule it out.

George followed only a few paces behind Luna and Shaun. Hermione wasn’t surprised to see him there. Despite his constant levity, she knew that he cared deeply about the patients and that he was concerned that both Luna and Shaun should be given all the help they needed to complete the steep trek. It would be an important milestone for both of them.

Over the next hour and a half, they wound their way up the rocky path that led to the lookout which was really a broad ledge off the side of the mountain. On their frequent stops, Luna would rub more potion into her feet while Shaun stretched his fatiguing muscles, and the rest chatted or turned to behold the magnificent vista of forests, rivers and distant mountains that rolled out before them.

Luna was always the first to recommence their ascent, often with George providing a backhanded word of encouragement. But as they reached the final climb, Luna suddenly grabbed Shaun’s hand and they completed the trek together, step for step, both hurdling the final rock and touching the top in unison. Luna flung her arms around Shaun’s skinny shoulders and planted a kiss on his cheek while everyone cheered.

As each climber reached the rocky ledge they found themselves a boulder to recline on to enjoy the crisp air and unseasonal sunshine. Chatting, they shared snacks and drinks before Luna stood and addressed the group,

“As you all know, I don’t mind a word.”

George cleared his throat. “We have noticed. Although I think sometimes you could afford to take a leaf out of Sarah’s book.” He winked at Sarah and squeezed her shoulder good-naturedly. She smiled in return, more than happy for him to tease both of them, they were best friends after all.

“And _you_ could take a leaf out of Shaun’s book,” Luna responded.

“Touché.” George nodded to Shaun.

“So I just want to let you all know how grateful I am that you could share this special moment with Shaun and myself,” Luna continued. “We have both come such a long way in the past few weeks and absolutely couldn’t have done it without the incredible support from every one of you.” She turned to Lynch. “Mr Lynch, the Galladdon Retreat is an inspiration and you should be so very proud of what you and the rest of your wonderful therapists have achieved here.”

There was applause and words of acknowledgement from everyone.

“And I would finally like to say a special word of appreciation to Professor Snape.” Luna’s voice turned husky as she was clearly overcome with emotion. “What you have managed to do for me with your immeasurable talent in potions has been nothing short of miraculous. Thank you, Professor.”

Hermione turned to see Snape, who was leaning against a rock, nod in acknowledgement, a small smile of appreciation curling his lips.

“And there’s no-one _else_ you’d like to specifically thank?” George asked pointedly.

“I’ll deal with you later,” Luna muttered as she resumed her seat.

As murmurs and snorts rose from the group, Shaun rose on thin, pale legs.

He cleared his throat nervously and looked around at the group.

“I . . . I’d just like to say a few things too. Um . . . as Luna said, we are grateful to you all for your support over the past weeks. This really is an amazing place and I feel very lucky to have been here.”

He paused for a moment and took a few deep breaths.

“Unlike most of you, I requested to be part of this group.”

Hermione looked up from where she had been tracing her finger through a patch of fine gravel. She hadn’t known that. Most patients who came to Galladdon were referred for treatment.

“There was a particular reason I wanted to be here,” he continued. “Something happened that I hadn’t been able to come to terms with. But this place has finally given me an opportunity.”

He licked his lips, a slight twitch capturing them.

“I like . . . I liked . . . to watch people. I enjoyed watching certain people. I used to get off on it.” He twitched again. “There was one particularly beautiful woman who I used to watch. I’d sit and look at her through her bedroom window. She never knew.”

His neck suddenly convulsed sideways.

“She wasn’t just beautiful though. She was sweet and gentle and kind. I’d follow her around and watch her and . . . I just knew she was a special person. But one night after I’d finished watching her, I went to leave and flicked my cigarette butt away. As I started walking down the hill, I saw that the roof had started smoking. It was on fire. I could have done something then. I should have tried to put it out. But I didn’t. I was scared of being caught. So I ran. I just ran away.” He swallowed and his slight frame billowed with his laboured breaths. “She, the woman, was really badly burnt. And it was my fault. I did it. I wanted to show her that I would suffer with her. That’s why I came here. But I now know that there is only one thing I can do that will go some way toward making up for what I’ve done. I just hope that one day you can forgive me, Luna. Until then . . . “

And he started running.

Everyone was in too much shock to process what was happening. It was all so quick; there was no time to react. He raced toward the sheer edge of the rocky outcrop and jumped.

“No!” Luna screamed.

And he fell.

But only a small distance. Then he stopped, suspended. And was dragged back. Some unseen force had captured him and was pulling him up inch by inch, returning him to the outcrop. Hermione glanced around to see Snape, arms raised, moving slowly towards the edge, guiding Shaun back. He clearly had him in a full body-bind, arms and legs strapped to his sides and had managed to wandlessly levitate him, pulling him closer and closer until he was able to position himself beneath Shaun’s motionless body, allowing him to drop into his arms.

“Come on, Shaun,” Snape murmured into the young man's ear. “Let’s get you back.”

Then he turned and walked back the way they had come. A lone black figure striding down the rocky trail, with Shaun Mollison curled against his chest like a child.

 

 


	16. Revealing Their Hands

“I’ll bring her back when she’s ready.” George’s face was unusually sombre as he stood with his arms wrapped protectively around Luna, who sobbed quietly into his chest.

Ellory had already started back down the trail with the rest of the group and now Hermione stood with Lynch, staring at the rocky ledge of the lookout as if it could somehow explain what had just happened. 

“Lynch?” Hermione murmured quietly.

He continued to squint into the distance, his blue eyes washed out and glassy.

“Lynch?”

He looked at her in confusion.

“You couldn’t have known.”

He put his hands on his hips and frowned back at the ledge for another long moment before exhaling loudly. “The lad was at risk. We all knew it. But he seemed to have improved so much. I think we were too pleased with ourselves.”

Hermione knew exactly what he was saying. Sometimes, as a therapist, you wanted to see your successes with far more clarity than they warranted. And something she knew of suicide was that it wasn’t always accompanied by acute anguish. Sometimes, when the person had made the decision to leave, they exhibited the type of calm acceptance that Shaun had. No doubt, the opportunity to train with Luna and show her in such an emphatic way how sorry he was, might have seemed like a welcome deliverance from his suffering.

“We’ve just got to be grateful he’s still with us.” Hermione hooked her hand around Lynch’s arm and gently pulled him toward the trail. “Now we have an opportunity to give him the support he needs.”

Lynch allowed himself to be guided back to the path.

“And Ms Lovegood.” He looked over his shoulder to where George and Luna stood together on the ledge. “This is going to set her back too.”

“Luna is one of the strongest people I know; she’s resilient,” Hermione assured him. “She was teased at school for being different but it didn’t change her, whatsoever. She has a lot of support. And if I know her, she’s going to want to help Shaun too.”

He sighed heavily but remained quiet as they plodded down the track.

Hermione had never seen him so shaken. They were all understandably deeply shocked, but Lynch was a veteran of pain and trauma. He had seen and personally experienced a lot and that’s why he’d started the Retreat in the first place. His first wife had been a muggle and she and his young daughter had been killed by Voldemort and his Death Eaters in the Second Wizarding War. He never spoke of it and had always been so professionally driven, she didn’t often think about him as anything other than her boss.

Now she felt the sadness within him and kept her hand locked around his arm, more for moral than physical support. He was the most robust person she had ever known, working obsessively to keep himself in peak condition. Now she wondered if he was constantly training in order to be prepared, to fight, to protect. Something that he hadn’t managed to do for his family. And something he’d failed, again, to do today.

They continued in silence on the entire journey back to the retreat. But before entering the front door, Hermione tightened her grip on his arm, pulling him to a halt.

“Luna was right. You have done something remarkable here. This Retreat is extraordinary. You have transformed so many lives. Don’t let today define this place. Or define you.”

He stared at her, his jaw clenching as he blinked away the sheen in his eyes.

Leaning down, he hugged her. “You’re a good lass,” he murmured before releasing her and quickly moving away, opening the door and disappearing without a backward glance.

***

“How is he?” Hermione asked anxiously. She'd been waiting in her office for hours.

Snape sat down wearily in the seat opposite. “Lynch is with him. He’s sleeping. I gave him a potion. I’ll need to brew some more.”

His face was drawn as he ran a hand through his lank hair.  

“What you did for Shaun . . . ,“ Hermione began.

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose, raising his other hand. “Don’t.”

Taking in the tension in his brow and the grim line of his mouth, she could see that he was suffering tremendously. He had clearly come to know Shaun well as his room-mate but she also felt that he understood the younger man on an entirely different level.

Standing, she moved over to him and positioned her legs on either side of his knees before lowering herself onto his lap. His eyes opened when she grasped both of his hands and pulled them behind her, before wrapping her arms around his neck and drawing his head to her chest.

Breathing heavily through his nose, he suddenly began to shudder against her. Stroking his hair with one hand and clutching his neck with the other, she did her best to soothe the sobs that wracked his body. For someone so iron-clad, so stoic, to be rupturing before her, it held all the gravity of a monumental statue toppling or a dam breaking. She cried quietly with him, silent tears coursing down her cheeks, not wanting to add to his pain. And as she rubbed and caressed him, he held her so tightly that she wondered what or who he was trying to cling on to.

When he finally lifted his head to fix her with eyes, dark and painfully tormented, she held his face in her hands, bringing her lips to his flushed cheeks to kiss away the tears. Grasping her small wrists in his hands, he pulled them to his chest as he captured her lips in his own. The kiss was not passionate, nor was it tentative, it was a kiss of open neediness and she responded immediately by opening her mouth to him.  

He groaned, making the soft cavern of her mouth vibrate, and followed it with his tongue, seeking out hers, lapping and sucking at it, drinking her in. She licked and nipped at him in encouragement but held back the full extent of her desire, wanting his to take precedence. Soon his kisses fell off her lips, sliding down her chin, then neck as he caught her in large wet mouthfuls. Feeling that things were going to progress quickly, she grabbed his hands and slid off his lap, pulling him up and towards her bedroom. She wasn’t averse to fucking on the chairs but she also wanted to ensure that he had the room to do what he needed to.

Within seconds of entering the room, he had wandlessly removed their clothes and was lying on top of her, his eyes boring into hers as if, now that he had revealed himself, shown his pain, he needed reassurance that she was still with him. Without hesitation, she opened her legs to him and his fingers slithered up the inside of her thigh before stuttering over her lips and delving into her slick channel. Eyes shuttering, he sighed softly as if, somehow, he hadn’t expected her to be ready for him, to be dripping with desire as she was.

She knew he was sexually generous, often to a fault, but this time he wasn’t waiting to find out what she wanted, or even for an invitation. Grasping his cock by the shaft, he nestled his head in her tight entrance, lubricating it in the slippery pool of juice there before pushing into her.

“Merlin!” she breathed, her head arching back into the pillow as his hot mouth clamped onto the her neck.

“Uhhhhh.” Her abdomen clenched as he reamed into her, stretching her walls with each successive stroke. It took a protracted series of thrusts to bury his cock fully inside her, impeded by how tightly the muscles of her pussy squeezed and clenched at him. Parted lips undulating against her neck with each pump of his hips, his tongue laved at her pulse before receding back to allow his teeth to graze across her sensitive flesh.

Her breathy moans rent the air as he shifted position and started rocking with short, deep strokes inside her. It was as if her core was oscillating on the fulcrum of his cock and with his black eyes penetrating hers, she felt herself being profoundly impaled from both ends. The gentle thud of his head against her cervix felt as intimate as she could possibly imagine and when his mouth captured hers and his tongue pushed inside, mimicking the rhythmic pumping of his cock, she felt herself opening to him even further, another pillar of resistance crumbling away.

The unbridled lust that was suddenly unleashed, injected a level of desire into her actions that she didn’t know existed. Squirming under him, she spread her legs as wide as she could and curved her tailbone to give him even deeper access, while her pussy sucked at his unrelenting dick with each flexion of her hips.

“That’s . . . most . . . compelling . . . Dr Granger.” His normally flawless baritone, wavered as he squeezed the words out between thrusts.

But any further vocalisations were lost as she devoured his lips and tongue in her, now ravenous, feasting which had him moaning in acknowledgement of how much her lust was turning him on. Suddenly, he rose from her and rocked back onto his knees, bringing her pussy with him. Her backside was now off the bed, nestled against his balls and her ankles were lifted onto his shoulders.

Grasping her by the hips, he was perfectly positioned to deliver a series of immensely forceful thrusts, pulling out fully before ramming back into her. And the angle of his cock had his fleshy helmet reaming along the front wall of her channel, bumping across her G-spot on every pass. The keening moans that rose from her chest turned intermittently tremulous each time he bottomed out inside her.

The way that he was expertly working her, lifting, rocking and driving, added to her sense of abandon. At that point she was willing to let him take her however he wished. But, despite the comforting lightness that came with giving over control, she was still concerned at the distance she felt from him in that position and also unsure of whether he was gearing up to pull out again. Those concerns, however, quickly shrank into a mere thread of consciousness as he placed two fingers together onto her labia and clitoris, rubbing them hard as he gathered momentum.

Between her cries, she could hear his breathing, laboured from the effort, but also his mounting grunts of desire. The tension in her pelvis reached epic proportions as the fingers of his other hand dug into the flesh of her hip. Clutching the bedcovers into her fists, her head rocked to the side and she started a long, rising moan. But just before her pussy exploded, he released the pressure on her clit and pulled her up into his arms, hooking both hands under her cheeks and thrusting deeply into her, their bodies pressed tightly together, eyes fused.

He had brought her so close to the edge that his gentle rocking in this position, pelvic bone gyrating against her clitoris, gradually, exquisitely, tipped her over the edge. The stretching of time around her release made her mouth fall open and he grasped her hair with one hand, pulling her head back to lock onto her mouth, devouring her moan as her body began to quake and convulse around him.

Clutching at his neck, she shuddered as the muscles of her core squeezed in seismic waves around his unyielding column, buried inside her like the sword in the stone. He fought, trying to drag his cock against the tide of her contractions until it became impossible to hold back. Grasping her buttocks tightly with both hands, he pulled her down and simultaneously thrust as deeply into her as he could.

“Uhhh . . . Hermione,” he groaned into her ear as he came, pushing over and over into her channel as his seed sprayed in pulsing streams, coating her insides.

Breathing in short, shuddering gasps she opened her eyes to see his tangled locks falling across his flushed and exhausted face. But she also saw something else. A peace. A calm that made him appear almost serene. Leaning forward, he kissed her deeply, cock nestled inside her as their hearts thundered together. His tender lips moved gently against hers in what felt to Hermione like the culmination of their intimacy before he gently lowered her back onto the bed. Collapsing, he pulled her onto his chest where she lay, moist and musky, melding with him and riding the gentle rise and fall of his breaths. Her mind floated on the blissful silence, meandering without purchase on anything but the intense connection she felt.  

Suddenly his husky voice rose into the stillness.

“He never trusted my mind.”

“Who?” Her voice sounded small against his.

“Voldemort. He knew that I could create what I wanted him to see. I could protect people with my thoughts.” He inhaled deeply. “He despised me for it. But also knew he needed to keep me close. I was too useful.”

She waited quietly for him to continue.

“So to punish and, ultimately, control me, he would search the minds of others. If he found any evidence of attachment to me, kindness, love, he would destroy them. He would destroy them to get to me. That was how he assured my compliance and isolation. There were certain people in his inner sanctum that he killed, slowly, painfully, in my presence, simply for caring about me.”

He paused and swallowed.

“So I couldn’t afford to allow anyone to get close. For their own safety, I would push them away. Voldemort considered that if he drove people from me and forced me to isolate myself, with no one to turn to, I would go to him, I’d need him more. Also, a man without attachments is one with nothing to lose. He relished the thought that he might desolate me sufficiently, deaden me emotionally, to the point that I could be the killing machine that he wanted.”

“One of his favourite torments was to tell me what he found in Lily Potter’s mind before he destroyed her. To tell me that she used to love me despite my betrayal. How that was one of the reasons her death was so satisfying to him. He never knew of my feelings for her. They are some I kept the most hidden.”

“And Dumbledore. Despite my assurances, Voldemort suspected that he held some affection for me and he knew that destroying him would, amongst other things, isolate me further.”

Hermione closed her eyes, almost unable to bear the anguish in his voice.

“Despite everything, an element remained within me that desperately needed to help and protect. It battled on as I forced people to reject me, making life unbearable at times. And then there was the part of me that was so tormented by grief and loss that it instilled an intense desire to own, to keep and hide people away for myself, even if only in my mind. Finally, there was the part that needed to be wanted, to be . . . loved. They are all still here. Inside me. At war—a constant need to have and own, protect, hide, love and be loved and, then, to push away and deny. Of course, logically I know he’s gone but the fear, the terror that comes from genuine affection, kindness, and the physical manifestations through my own sexual gratification can be . . .  almost too much to bear.”

Hermione’s tears leaked steadily onto his bare skin. His traumatic conditioning had been so profound that it clearly defied all level of reasoning. She’d seen it before, just never on this scale. Rising from his chest, she placed her hand on his cheek and turned his face to hers.

“Severus, I care deeply for you,” she said, her eyes searching his. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

 

 


	17. The Handy Man Can

“I’d like you to help me, help him,” Luna said, her mottled face weary but determined.

A concerned frown furrowed Hermione’s brow. “First, I need to know how you’re faring,” she said.

“Even when I thought the fire was my fault, I didn’t blame myself. It was an accident.” Luna’s silvery eyes shimmered. “Now I know that Shaun started the fire, I can’t blame him. It was still an accident.”

“But he could have intervened.”

“Maybe he could, maybe he couldn’t. We’ll never know. Hermione, I’d rather deal with ‘what is’ rather than ‘what might have been’.”

Hermione continued to appraise her silently. Something had changed. Luna’s voice had been gradually returning thanks to a concoction of healing herbs that Snape had been brewing into tea. Now she spoke with the familiar lilt and intonation that Hermione knew to be Luna. But it wasn’t just her tone. There was something about her words, her deeply intuitive sense seemed to be returning in force. Perhaps it was a part of the healing process and her reconnection with herself as Luna. Or maybe the catalyst was the recent events with Shaun. Whatever it was, Hermione could tell that Luna was far from frail. She gave the impression, as she always had at Hogwarts, of holding wisdom beyond her years.

“We’ll be taking a number of approaches with Shaun, mainly around reducing his suicidal thinking and nurturing his coping skills,” Hermione told her. “I’ll be focusing on his emotion-regulation and distress tolerance. But, I think you’re well positioned to help with his coping skills, especially around encouraging him to reach out to social supports. Then we have to consider your unique relationship with him—that might be more difficult to navigate but there are likely to be some positive aspects.”

Hermione suddenly stood and started pacing the room. It helped her thoughts to flow.

“What you need to realise is that suicide is a closed world with its own logic. Shaun is currently in this shut off space where he sees every detail as fitting and each incident reinforcing his decision to take his life. That needs to be challenged. He needs to be encouraged to collect evidence that is incompatible with his current beliefs. For example, his beliefs around being unforgivable can be negated by your forgiveness. As the evidence accumulates, it can help him to unfreeze his beliefs about himself and others. And also about the future.”

Hermione stopped and turned to Luna.

“Our overall aim will be to transform his sense of hopelessness into hopefulness. He needs to see a future for himself and develop a plan for engaging with it. This is going to be a long and difficult road for him but we have a chance in this intensive environment to support him to get there.”

Luna nodded. “I know I can help. At least I can’t make things worse for him. And I was in that space, myself, when I arrived here, fantasising about floating away. Just to escape the pain.”

Hermione marvelled, again, at the astoundingly composed and compassionate woman before her. Luna had managed to deal with the shock of discovering who was responsible for her permanent disfigurement and had already not only forgiven him, but was seeking to help him through his anguish.

“Do you want me to come with you when you first see him?” Hermione asked.

“I’ve already seen him,” said Luna, rising from her seat. “I had to take him my sunflower.”

“Sunflower?”

“Yes, the one my father sent. It delivers sunlight therapy—for emotional healing. I thought Shaun needed it more at this point in time than I do.”

Hermione’s thoughts went to the sunflower that Snape had placed in her bathroom, suddenly aware of its significance. He was trying to heal her emotionally without her even being aware of it. 

***

“We need to decide who’s going to be staying with Shaun over the next few days.” Lynch leaned against the bench in the staff room, muscular arms crossed over his water bottle.

“Could we just take it in shifts?” asked Hermione.

Lynch nodded. “Snape has agreed to cover the night shift since he’ll continue to share their room, so it’s just a matter of covering the time during the day.”

“I’m happy to do more shifts.” Ellory’s voice was unusually quiet and Hermione noticed that her toast sat uneaten on her plate.

Lynch looked hard at her. “We’ll split the time evenly,” he said finally. “Does that suit you George?”

George was also unusually reserved. “Yes, but I’d just like to ensure that Shaun’s needs don’t supersede the needs of the other patients. We can’t lose sight how much of a shock it’s been for everyone else, especially Luna.”

“No one is suggesting that,” Lynch replied with a stern frown. “Of course the other patients won’t be forgotten. And we all know that you have Luna’s best interests at heart.”

George recoiled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Lynch shook his head with a sigh. “I’m just saying that it’s clear that the two of you are close.”

“Close?” George stood, shoving his seat back. “Close is a pretty relative term wouldn’t you say?” He held Lynch’s gaze before turning and striding out the door.

“Fuck,” Lynch muttered, throwing his empty bottle into the sink with a loud clatter and following him out.

Ellory looked on dully, as if she hadn’t fully comprehended what was going on.

Watching the older woman over the rim of her tea cup, Hermione chewed her lip. She was so used to her being haughty and combative, she wasn’t quite sure of what to make of her distinctly subdued demeanour. Then she thought back to something that Snape had said.

“Perhaps you could give Shaun some massage therapy?” she said, taking a sip of tea in an effort to appear casual.

Ellory peered at her over her glasses and Hermione could feel her scanning her face for signs of mockery or derision.

“Professor Snape said you were very good,” she added.

Ellory frowned and finally sighed. “Yes, I might do that,” she said quietly before standing and putting a hand on Hermione’s shoulder on her way out the door.

Hermione continued to feel the weight of her hand, long after she’d gone. It was the first time she could remember Ellory touching her in the past two and a half years.

***

Snape sat in his usual seat by the window, a steaming bowl of soup on the table and an open book in his hand.

“Do you mind if I join you, Professor?” Hermione slid into the seat beside him.

Glancing up from his book, he allowed his eyes to rest on her for so long that she started to feel the uncomfortable prickle of self-consciousness.

“I can leave?”

He gave a gentle snort and placed the book down before leaning towards her. “And where would you go?”

Her breathing instantly accelerated with his closeness. She was going to have to delve into some serious control techniques if she was going to withstand his presence over the remaining weeks.

“I’m sure there are others who would appreciate my company,” she murmured.

“Do you need me to appreciate you?” His voice was barely a whisper.

He knew what she wanted.

“I’d like to continue with my teachings,” she responded quietly.

His gaze rolled over her. “Are you sure you’re ready?”

“Positive.”

The ghost of a smile twitched the corner of his lips. “Piano therapy?”

“Not . . . this time.”

“Really?” His hand slid onto her thigh, just below the level of the table where it couldn’t be seen and his elegant fingers tapped a rhythm on her leg that she knew without even looking.

“We could make a few more keys . . . stick,” he breathed.

“I scourgified it,” Hermione murmured, glancing around the room to ensure no one was watching them.

“That’s a shame.” The soft, rhythmic movements on her leg were gradually edging toward her crotch. “I was hoping to smell your . . . enjoyment . . . the next time I played.”

Feeling suddenly hot, Hermione squirmed to relieve the throbbing tension that was already building in her core.

Suddenly he stopped and slid his hand back onto his book, picking it up and resuming his reading. “I actually had something lighter in mind, considering recent events,” he said, focusing on the pages. “I’ll come by this afternoon. Bring my wand.”

Hermione nodded briefly. “I’ll be there . . . ready.”

***

“Do you have any sex toys?” Snape asked, abrupt and business-like, as soon as he’d closed the door to her office.

Hermione wasn’t sure what she’d expected after the closeness of their last encounter, but she was quickly discovering that he was still very much the same Snape. And it came as a relief. She didn’t want him different. She just wanted to understand him.

“Actually I do.” She felt a sudden jolt of pride at being able to demonstrate that she wasn’t as sexless as he’d assumed.

With a distinct swagger, she walked into her bedroom, fossicking around in her bedside drawer before pulling out an object and presenting it to him.

“That’s a toy is it?” He held the small black cylinder disdainfully between his thumb and index finger.

“Well . . . it’s a . . . modest approximation.” Hermione replied somewhat indignantly.

“It would appear to be the antithesis of a toy—about as fun as a bout of boils.” He continued to regard the device with contempt.

Hermione remembered that she’d received it as a free give-away at a sex therapist conference years before. It was unlikely to be top of the range. Actually, it probably wouldn’t even make ‘the range’ in any reputable sex shop.

“So is this just a further attempt to demonstrate my sexual inexperience and inadequacy or is there another point you’re trying to make?” She crossed her arms.

Snape stared at her. “On the bed.” His lips hung apart after the last word and Hermione felt a shiver trickle down her spine.

Before she could move, he gave a single downward flourish of his hand, dragging every piece of her clothing into a pool at her feet. Wrapping her arms protectively around her erect nipples, she gasped as he stepped closer, hovering only millimetres from her naked, prickling flesh.

“I said . . . on . . . the . . . bed.”

After a moment, she dropped her arms obediently to her sides and responded, “Yes, sir.”

He raised his chin in acknowledgement, allowing her to release the breath she’d been holding.

Stepping back, he continued to fix her with his gaze. “Where’s my wand?”

“On the shelf, sir.” She pointed as she backed onto the bed.

Retrieving it, Snape held the wand easily between his fingertips. Hermione noted it was more like a musical instrument in his hands than anything else.

“Lie on your back and open your legs.”

Despite their past encounters, his blunt, lascivious instructions still had the capacity to make her flush with humiliation but the simultaneous surge of electrified tension that jabbed at her core felt deeply erotic. Such paradoxical physicality felt central to her developing an understanding of the dissonance of arousal.

Spreading her legs wide, she placed her palms flat against the bedcovers, wondering if the comfort of it came from the mental image of it covering her, now gaping, genitals.

“Hold your lips apart.” The word ‘lips’ tripping off his lips sent another jolt through her.

Her movements felt laboured, like her limbs were coated in thick molasses. She was having to force herself to comply. But the battle, itself, was adding to the tension that coiled within her.  

Sliding her fingers down to her labia, she spread them apart, feeling the cool, impersonal air sliding over her latest reveal.

“Wider.” He tilted his head as he watched her.

She sighed inwardly. It seemed that no mental hurdle would ever be enough. There would always be another. _He’d seen it all before so why did it feel like the first time? Was that the nature of the Dominant-submissive relationship? That the power play could redraw the lines, anew, each time?_

Walking her fingers lower, she opened her inner lips and could feel her vagina stretching open. Closing her eyes for a moment of reprieve from his boldly probing gaze, she opened them to find him holding the black device between his fingers, touching the tip of his wand to one end. Suddenly the stunted shaft began to extend, pulling upward and outward. He kept looking back at her vagina for reference, adjusting the dimensions based upon what he was seeing.

Her former Potions Professor was customising a sex toy for her. It wasn’t something she’d ever considered would constitute part of her conscious thought processes. But here he was, methodically and precisely shaping it and, now, adding a second shorter angled appendage from the base. With small flicks of his wand, he applied a series of raised nodules to the surface of the shaft and some longer, finger-like projections to the top of the secondary appendage. The final surprise was when he turned the whole structure over and rolled the wand in a circular motion to carve out the inside of each cylinder.

With a final tap, he set the two pieces vibrating in a high-pitched whir before inserting his index finger inside the hollowed out primary phallus and thumb into the shorter one.

The penny suddenly dropped. Hermione swallowed.

“Don’t look so concerned,” he gave a wry grin. “If you could see the way your pussy has been undulating like a belly-dancer, beckoning to me this entire time, you’d realise that the mind-body continuum is a fallacy. Or perhaps I should say ‘phallusy’ in your case. Regardless, what you think you want and what your body wants are not always congruent. Believe me, I’ve not witnessed a more wanton performance by a cunt in anticipation of imminent filling and fucking in my life.”

Hermione heard herself groan with the effort of maintaining her composure.  

“And now I intend to reward your unselfconscious twat for having the courage to express its true desires despite the, no doubt, incessant priggishly banal instructions of its owner.”

He knelt on the bed, fully clothed, his buttoned-up black against her tremulous pale flesh magnifying the power discrepancy.

“You will instruct me on what you wish to occur with this particular device which can, as you will now discover, legitimately be called a ‘sex toy’.”

Hermione drew in a deep breath as she appraised what looked more like a smooth black ‘fucking claw’. Her words stuck in her desert-dry throat—no doubt a result of the significant loss of moisture south.

“Be precise,” his enunciation was, as always, exquisitely precise. “This is about you learning what you want and communicating it accurately.”

 Hermione’s voice, when it did finally surface, was a dry rasp.

“I want the large shaft against my clitoris.” She closed her eyes against the final word. It was painfully embarrassing to hear.

“Describe what you want to happen.” She heard the high-pitched vibration increase in volume and felt the bed shift under her. He must be close.

“I . . . I want you to rub the shaft slowly around my clitoris, then touch gently on my nub.”

“Good girl,” he rumbled and she felt something warm flood into her chest. She was mortified to think it was the same desperately desirous need for praise that she’d exhibited throughout her schooling. But it would be. Of course it was. Since when did such things simply dissipate? It was part of her make up—a need as fundamental as anything else that sustained her.

And so she had to let it be. To immerse herself in his approval. And the sense of receiving praise for the very act of seeking pleasure caused the warmth to flood even lower, to meld with the heat that was already seething with anticipation deep inside her.

Opening her eyes, she saw him withdraw the red cord from their previous encounter from his pocket. He shook it casually, causing two loops to appear, before tossing it onto her chest.

“Place the loops over your wrists, then put your hands above your head.”

Following his instructions, she felt the cord pull tight as it drew her wrists up, securing them against the bed head. His dark eyes now trawled over her body and she noticed his tongue flick briefly against his bottom lip in a predatory gesture that made her abdomen clench.

Placing a hand beside her waist, he leaned over her pelvis and drew the bumpy head of the device up her inner thigh, shuddering up the fleshy contour of one labia before delving down to flicker against her inner lips.

Hermione inhaled sharply, her shoulders arching into the bed as he painstakingly executed her bidding. Sliding the head of the shaft in gentle circles around her swollen nerve bundle with his index finger, he allowed the numbing vibrations to prime her clitoris before meeting the engorged head directly, causing her to buck like a whip cracking.

“You do know what you want, don’t you?” he murmured, continuing to tease her both physically and mentally. “What can I do for you now?”

“Um . . . “ She was still recovering from her overreaction to the stimulation of her clitoris. “My nipples. I’d like you to rub them between the two shafts . . . sir.”

His eyebrow flickered up and he stared at her in surprise. “We might make a loose woman out of you yet.”

A small smile crept onto her lips but instantly fell away when he brought the two vibrating appendages together in a pincer grip along one of her nipples.

“Oh shit!” she grunted, her face rolling into her raised bicep. As the nodules stuttered along her taut flesh, drawing each bud out into a throbbing tip, she moaned and strained against her binds, not quite understanding how her breasts could deliver such piercing intensity.

“Uhhhh.” The shock of his hot mouth engulfing one singing point, massaging it with deep, strident strokes of his tongue made her thrust against him in an effort to gain some traction for her suddenly aching and ravenous pussy.

Placing the vibrating shafts against her pelvis to hold her down, he took the other nipple just as forcefully. All she could do was pant against her arm, riding out the clenching waves of desire that rolled through her. She knew now why he’d tied her down. There was no way she wouldn’t be clawing at him otherwise.  

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered, his lips against her nipple, flicking the tip with each word.

Hermione was already delirious. If this continued for much longer, she knew that he would drive her half mad.

“Just fuck me hard with it. Please,” she murmured, her face still buried in her arm.

She heard the deep inhalation of breath through his nose. It didn’t seem that he required any further clarification.

His weight lifted off her, then she felt his hand pressing on her inner thigh, forcing her legs apart before the shuddering head of the main phallus slipped through her folds and sat at her constricted opening which twitched, desperate to grab hold of something, anything.

“As you wish.” He drew out the last word as he delved into her.

He’d transfigured a much wider column than the original and, with the added bumpy texture, it both stretched and stimulated every millimetre of her channel as he forged into her. Lost for words, she simply rocked her head, moaning unintelligibly, as his thumb, embedded inside the smaller shaft, simultaneously alighted with a frenzy of tiny shivering fingers on her clitoris.

She bucked as he thrust up deep inside her, riding the dual sensation shuddering inside and outside her pussy. Pinning one of her legs with his body, he lay down on top of her, allowing his practised fingers to work the device by feel alone. The fingers of his free hand grasped her hair and dragged her head gently back to expose her neck where he trailed his tongue along the pale column, continuing to work her channel.

The contrast between the sensuous glide of his tongue and the jackhammering into her core caused a sensory division that she couldn’t quite reconcile. Her mind didn’t know where to focus, how to gauge what was happening, and so she just gave up, allowing sensation to build relentlessly inside her, without intervention and without judgement.

“Are you going to come for me?” he rumbled as he worked his way up her neck, nipping at her earlobe.

She ghosted the word ‘yes’ but could manage no more as her clitoris felt like it was about to explode, her squeezing cunt attempting to vacuum seal the plunging shaft deep inside it.  

“You’re so tight,” he breathed. “If that was my cock inside you now, the blood would be trapped inside it and it would continue to engorge. Can you feel it?”

She could. He was wandlessly expanding the shaft inside her, increasing the pressure against her walls until her pussy felt ready to burst, twitching and spasming with each thrust, trying to accommodate the size.

Then his thumb, a master of chords and runs, became the master of her clitoris, tapping, jiggling and massaging with the pulsating head until she was overwhelmed with the exquisite clash of pleasure and pain.

“Gods, Severus!” she screamed, a full-body orgasm capturing her, causing her to jerk and buck uncontrollably under him. Her breath came in convulsive gasps against his cheek as wave after wave of contractions slammed into her pussy, squeezing the huge column into her body and forcing out a stream of liquid that could no longer be contained within the pressure cooker of her pelvis.

“Unhhh, unnhhh,” she groaned as the aftershocks continued to wrack her holes. Slowly, he slipped the phallus from inside her making her feel stretched and empty, like she’d just delivered something huge.

“I thought you said you had something ‘lighter’ planned?” she panted in his ear.

“Lighter than what else I have in mind for you,” he responded, his voice rumbling against her chest.

She let out a shuddering sigh. “Fuck.”

 

 


	18. In Her Hands

“What did you mean when you said that you cared deeply about me?” Snape asked, gently massaging the cool cream into her wrists as she lay naked on the bed beside him.

She rolled over to face at him. He wasn’t looking at her, focusing instead on her chafed skin which was already looking better for the treatment. 

“I care about what happens to you. I care that you have a good life.”

He frowned as he listened to her, more in concentration than disapproval.

“You were right when you said there were things that you didn’t deserve. Something you certainly don’t deserve is to continue punishing yourself for the actions of others—especially a psychopath like Voldemort.”

“I’m sure you would have tried to help him too if you’d had the chance.” Snape’s expression was grim as his fingers continued to rub her.

Hermione looked him over carefully, wondering exactly what he was trying to say.

“Are you asking if I care for you out of sympathy?”

His eyes flickered to hers and back to her wrist. Whatever he was thinking, it was either too difficult or too traumatic to articulate.

Hermione took a deep breath. This was a conversation she knew was going to have to happen at some stage.

“I don’t know how you’re going to respond to what I’m about to say but I think it best to be honest, for my sake as much as yours. I’m not going to pretend that this whole thing isn’t complicated. There are so many layers to every aspect of what has happened between us that I could spend a lifetime analysing it. I’m not going to do that. Instead, I’m going to tell you exactly how I feel.”

She sat up to position herself directly over him so he could no longer avoid her gaze.

“Before you arrived, I must admit that I had considered withdrawing myself from your treatment. Even then, I was concerned that you would dominate my thoughts. As it turns out, you have. Severus, you are a very compelling man, you’re not easy to ignore. You’re enigmatic and intriguing and intelligent but also complex and, let’s face it, damaged. It’s a heady mix for someone like me.”

She took one of his hands in hers.

“You taught me so much when you were my Professor and, even in your short time here, I feel like you’ve helped me to grow more than I have in years. I know that you and I have an ‘arrangement’ and that you told me you were helping me purely out of academic interest. That might still be the case for you. But it isn’t for me. I have feelings for you. In some ways I wish I didn’t. It’s not a particularly useful thing for either of us. But it turns out there’s not a lot I can do. Believe me, I’ve been trawling through my books looking for a solution to unhealthy attachments and none of the techniques are currently working.”

“Fucking me on a regular basis probably doesn’t help,” he commented.

Hermione smiled self-consciously and inclined her head. “That might well be a contributing factor.”

She took another deep breath. “Anyway, just know that I don’t expect anything of you. I’ll work through my feelings as, and when, I’m able. The last thing I would want is for you to feel sorry for me or guilty about how I feel. It’s just something I’m sharing with you in the interests of being honest and in response to your question.” She looked at him hard and gave his hand a small shake. “And I really don’t want this to change our arrangement.”

His black eyes remained on hers as his nostrils flared with the intensity of passing thoughts and emotions.  

“Hermione.” Her name sounded lovely on his lips. “You need to know that I’m more fucked up than you could possibly imagine.”

“I understand.” She squeezed him gently.

“I really don’t think you do.” He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose in such familiar Snape-ish posturing that she was instantly transported back, almost a decade, to his classroom.

“And you think I’m not?” Hermione exclaimed. “You pointed it out within hours of arriving—all of the blatant signs of my psychopathology.”

He sighed. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was . . . showing off . . . I shouldn’t have done it.”

“Showing off?”

“I . . . “ He shook his head. “I was intimidated by the idea of you, my past student, treating me. And I was also taken . . . with your obvious compassion and, to be honest, I was somewhat attracted to you. I immediately needed to establish some distance. To assert my dominance.”

Hermione was having difficulty processing what he was saying. He opened his eyes to see the look of confusion on her face.

“Don’t you see? I wanted to fuck you from the start. These lessons were my way of doing it. I manipulated and deceived you. That’s the sort of man I am, Hermione. I’m a selfish fucking bastard.”

Hermione shook her head as he was speaking. “That’s not true. You focused on my gratification the entire time. If you just wanted to fuck me, you would have. You’re telling me this because you want me to hate you. I’m sorry, Severus, but I won’t.”

His brow furrowed with pain and frustration. “There must be someone else you want? Lynch?”

Hermione barked out a derisive laugh. “Lynch? He’s my boss. He’s married. I have a huge amount of respect for him but I’m not attracted to him in the slightest.”

“You seemed to be getting along quite well riding practically naked on his broomstick.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Hermione surprised herself with her instant response. “I don’t want Lynch. Merlin’s balls! He’s older than you are.”

Snape looked taken aback. “And clearly that’s a problem?”

“No, it’s not a problem. There’s just nothing about him that interests me. Not in that way.”

“So you would prefer a pale, greasy haired, hook-nosed, _old_ Professor?”

Hermione smiled. “As it turns out. Yes.”

He raised a disbelieving eyebrow but didn’t respond.

As she silently watched him, their conversation tumbled about in her head. Then a number of things suddenly slotted together. She was instantly on edge.

“Will you be informing him?”

“Who?”

“Lynch. Will you be telling him of this conversation.”

Snape drew in a deep breath, his eyes traveling slowly over her face before responding with a loud exhalation. “Yes.”

Hermione dropped his hand. “What the fuck are you two playing at?”

He ran a hand through his hair, looking decidedly uncomfortable.

“Tell me!” she demanded.

He paused for a long moment. “Lynch knows about us. He might not have been as approving of my methods with you as I had initially thought. He threatened to remove me from the Retreat, concerned that you may become attached to me because of the lack of other offers on the table. Due to the isolation of this place.”

“You’re not making sense.” Hermione shook her head distractedly.

“He wanted me to put him forward as an alternative to gauge your response.”

Hermione rocked onto her knees, her hands falling to her naked hips as she leaned over him. “Are you fucking serious?”

He raised a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug.

“Do you both think I’m that desperate? That I’m waiting here like some poor celibate spinster for the man of my dreams to turn up? Believe it or not, I’m not pining for a relationship. I can actually leave this place. I do take holidays. I have actually fucked other people. Merlin’s arsehole!  That is the clumsiest, male chauvinistic, bullshit I’ve ever come across. I’m appalled at both of you.”

As she glared at him, she saw the corner of his lip twitch up almost imperceptibly.

“Do you think this is funny?” She rose up higher on her knees.

The quirk became more pronounced and he raised a hand. “I agree that it was clumsy. I did as Lynch asked so that I could stay for the duration of my treatment. But . . . I haven’t seen you like this in a long time. Passionate and angry. It’s . . . it’s a serious turn on.”

“That’s still condescending.” She frowned down at him, her jaw clenching in annoyance but then a thought suddenly struck her, bringing the ghost of a smile to her lips. “But maybe we could explore how much of a turn on it really is.”

Snatching up the red cord from the bed she threw it to him. “You know what to do.”

He eyed her with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation, then flicked the cord to create two loops before placing his wrists through them and positioning his hands above his head. It instantly tightened, holding him in place.

Hermione raked her eyes over him and realised that her heart was pounding furiously. She had a feeling she was going to enjoy this. Reaching onto her bedside table, she picked up her wand.

“While you’re in the process of spilling the beans, there’s something else I’ve been wondering about.” She tapped her wand threateningly into the palm of her other hand. “Why is your case file so sparse?”

“Oh that?” He scratched his cheek against his raised arm in thought. “I fucked my case manager and had to erase her memories. I might have removed a few extras while I was at it. I like my privacy.”

Hermione snorted disapprovingly. “Why am I not surprised?”

He gave another small innocent shrug that should have made her angry but it just made her want to fuck him.

“Where do you keep your lubricant?”

He smirked openly. “Now what sort of question is that?”

“That’s the sort of question you ask someone who turns up in your bedroom with a bondage cord and healing salve and, no doubt, possesses a range of other implements in his ‘toolkit’.”

He chuckled through his nose, appraising her with newfound respect. “Left front pocket.”

Leaning forward, she reached into the pocket of his coat which was riding up due to the position of his hands. She began by pulling out a chain with clamps on either end, then another two cords, a blindfold, what looked like a gag of some sort and finally a small jar of what she assumed was lubricant.

“You would have made a good boy scout,” she muttered, jamming the other items back into the pocket. “No doubt you’d have breezed through the bondage badge.”

“You should see what I have in my other pockets,” he murmured silkily.

“No thank you,” she replied. “I have enough to process for the time being.”

“Now,” she sighed, rocking back on her heels. “Let’s see what’s going on under all . . . those . . . buttons.”

With a flick of her wand, she cast Leviosa and lifted him off the bed. With a second flick she cast the seam-splitting spell which left all of his clothes hanging in loose sheets before removing them with a flourish that caused his erection to swing from side by side like a pendulum. Then she dropped him, none too gently, back onto the bed, his cock bobbing against his abdomen with the impact.

“I think you might be enjoying this a little too much,” he said drily, noting the satisfied smirk on her face.

“Perhaps.” She reached over and grabbed the black sex toy. Holding the two phalluses between both hands, she looked at him meaningfully, before snapping them apart.

He winced. “What did you do that for?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll fix the fucking claw when I’ve finished.”

“The what?”

“Nothing. I’ll fix it.”

She had her own wand positioned against the smaller appendage and was now sculpting it, making it narrower and elongating the base. She kept the nodules on the top but angled them slightly, her knowledge of both internal and external anatomy coming to the fore.

Unscrewing the top of the jar of lubricant she dipped the small phallus in and swirled it around, coating the entire structure in slick gel before returning the lid and tossing the jar aside.

Sliding her index finger inside the cylinder, she set it vibrating with a tap of her wand.

“No doubt you’ve already worked out what’s going to happen here.” She appraised him over the shuddering black shaft. “If you’re uncomfortable with my plans let me know now, otherwise I’ll proceed as intended.”

A dark fire burned in his eyes. She already knew the answer. “Proceed.” His voice was deep and gravelly.

She hadn’t performed a digital rectal exam since her internship but was pretty sure she hadn’t forgotten how, even with the extra consideration of the phallus on her finger.  

Pushing her weight against one of his knees, she tilted his pelvis forward. Then she used one hand to spread his cheeks apart before placing the head of the vibrator against his puckered opening which was clenching in anticipation.

“Take a breath, hold it and bear down,” she instructed.

As he followed her command, she felt his sphincter relax slightly and gently pushed into him, judging the degree of resistance by feel. Gradually, she guided the head forward, waiting for his clenching muscles to relax before pushing again.

His face was a rictus of effort as she slid the phallus deeper until she felt it nudge against the wall of his rectum, directly apposed to his prostate. The guttural groan that emerged from his throat and the way his cock jerked and twanged when she bumped the jiggling fingers forward told her that she was in the right place.

Leaning over him, she grasped his rock-hard shaft, sliding her hand lightly over the satin finish as she continued to thrust the phallus into his rectum with her other hand. When she bounced against his prostate, she could feel the shockwaves pulsing through his cock and was glad she’d decided to add a curved base to the phallus as she needed to hook her thumb into it to withdraw it from the constrictive tightness of his passage. His hips were already rocking into her, pushing his cock against her palm on the upstroke and impaling himself on her finger on the downstroke.

Moving with him and starting at his balls, she licked her way up the sensitive seam on the underside of his cock before stroking the loose frenulum with her tongue, causing it to tug and tease his engorged head. Hearing a sharp hiss, she glanced up to see him watching her progress, his biceps were straining against the cord as his lips drew back in a grimace that Hermione hoped was due to an impending sensorial overload. She wanted to take him to the same place he’d taken her; that place where the mind has to stop and just give in to feelings, to sensation.

Trailing her tongue up over the rosy tip of his bobbing head, she pursed her lips to sip away his translucent precum and heard him huff loudly again, as if his control was gradually, incrementally slipping away.

Flattening her tongue, she swiped it across the smooth dome of his head before engulfing the entire thing in her mouth, rolling her lips down over the corona until it was sealed inside her. She couldn’t see him particularly well from this angle but she could certainly hear him grunting and feel him writhing around under her.

Sliding her hand up his abdomen, she grasped one nipple between her fingers and pinched it hard as she gave his prostate an extra jab.

“Fuck me, Merlin!” he cried. She hadn’t heard that one before. That was probably a good sign.

It also seemed to have opened up his vocal cords as he settled into a rhythm of breathy moans with each thrust into her mouth. Trailing her hand back down, she now clamped it around the base of his cock, allowing him to push through her constriction as she licked and sucked as his head.

His moans were getting louder and louder as he slid further and further into her throat with each increasingly rapid jerk off the bed. She found herself having to pull back from him to draw breath but managed to continue to plunge the vibrator into his tightening passage.

“Oh Gods, Hermione,” he panted. “I’m . . . uhhhhh . . . I’m commmiiinnnggg,” he strained the word out as his abdomen clenched like a rock and his hips started to buck uncontrollably.

Hermione pulled back and jackhammered his shaft, giving him a front row view of his milky semen as it shot into the waiting cavern of her mouth. Dipping the tip of her tongue to the pulsing slit, she captured the subsequent streams that ejected with waning force until all that remained was a single creamy pearl that she delicately licked off before closing her lips and swallowing.

Slowly pulling her finger from his rectum, she looked up at him. His mouth hung open; he seemed to be in genuine shock.

“That should give you something to put in the wank bank,” she said, venturing a small grin.

His brow furrowed before his own mouth curled into a smirk. “Wank bank?”

And then he laughed. “Oh fuck!” The last word stuttered out on a deep rolling wave that rumbled from his chest. Now it was Hermione’s turn to be shocked. He laughed and laughed and laughed; like he’d been waiting forever to do it and now that he’d started, he just couldn’t stop. Hermione hugged her knees to her chest and just watched him, never more pleased with herself and in awe of being able to witness this magnificent moment of release.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to the great and powerful OracleObscured for that key phrase 'wank bank.'


	19. Bare Hands

Hermione sat with Shaun on the river bank, watching in silence as the grey waters slid by. He’d been very quiet throughout their walk in the forest. Hermione had pointed out occasional unusual fungi and animals hiding along the forest trail but she was also content to let the silence be.

“Lucky you’re being paid,” Shaun said, rubbing his chin against his knee as he squinted into the distance.

In Hermione's experience, it was quite common for patients to suggest that any perceived kindness on the part of their therapist was financially driven. It wasn’t totally without basis, their relationship held the paradox of both intimacy and service provision, but Hermione suspected that he was trying to push her away. It wasn’t a bad sign as it meant that he felt some connection to her presence.

“Do you remember how you were scheduled to see Mr Lynch this morning?” she asked.

He paused before giving a small nod.

“I asked to spend this time with you instead.”

He snorted mirthlessly. “You make me sound irresistible. What is it? My sparkling personality and witty repartee?”

Hermione didn’t answer. He would be tuned in to anything that sounded remotely placating or disingenuous. The truth was that she was there to help him. But they didn’t have a relationship beyond that and it would be unhelpful to pretend otherwise, as any evidence to the contrary would just consolidate his feelings of worthlessness. Instead she redirected his focus.

“What were you thinking about?”

He rocked almost imperceptibly as he stared across the water.

_Self-comforting._

“I was thinking that if I jumped into the river, you would never be able to find me.”

Hermione considered his words. “And why would that be?”

“Because there would be no sound. Ripples wouldn’t take the time to rise for me. And I wouldn’t want them to. I would want to disappear without a trace.”

Hermione felt the weight of sadness in her chest but was careful not to react. Clearly, he felt that his impact upon the world had been so devastating that he now wanted to have no impact at all. He wasn’t even worthy of the world accommodating his presence.

Leaning forward, she picked up a small stone from the ground and held it out to him.

“Throw this in the river.”

He looked at it for a moment before taking it from her fingers and flicking it, with a whip of his skinny arm, into the water. It made a small splash.

“Shaun, you are going to continue to influence the world around you whether you like it or not. It might be direct or it might be indirect, and sometimes you’ll never know what impact you have. But what you need to realise is that removing yourself from the world will have a seriously negative impact on a lot of people, including myself. You now have an opportunity to choose to influence the world positively, to have a constructive impact on the things and people around you.”

She looked at him hard, even though he hadn’t yet looked at her.

“And you can start with my hand because it's fucking cold and I can’t seem to get it warm.”

She held her out her cold, pale hand to him. He tentatively took it between both of his thin hands and rubbed vigorously.

“You’ll have to do a lot better than that. It’s freezing.”

The corner of his mouth lifted as he put in more effort. He was puffing by the time she informed him that she could now feel it.

“I want you to store this away. This is evidence of your positive impact. See my hand? It’s now pink, it’s warm, I can feel it. You are going to keep adding to this. Okay?”

His chest rose and fell with the deep tide of emotions that were flowing through him, but finally he nodded.

“There’s something else I want you to do.” Hermione rose from the bank and extended her hand to help him up. “When we get back, I want you to sign a contract with me. I want you to promise that if you ever consider harming yourself again, you will come and talk to me first. I take these sorts of contracts extremely seriously and I want you to as well. Will you sign it?”

He looked apprehensive but gave another brief nod. “Yes.”

***

The trees surrounding The Bath were almost completely bare and the leaves that littered the ground had turned mushy with the recent rain. George was already sitting on one of the benches when Hermione arrived.

She could tell before she even sat down that he was still in a very un-George-like mood.   

“Hey there.” Hermione slapped him lightly on the thigh in what had come, over their time together, to mean light-hearted affection.

“Hey you,” George nodded at her with a grim smile.

“What’s the happs?”

“Not a lot. You?”

“Not a jot.”

It was a silly little greeting they often engaged in, usually when there was something difficult to discuss.

“How are things going with Luna?”

She instantly regretted the words, remembering how he’d responded when Lynch had broached the subject. But this time it was met with a wearily raised eyebrow.

“She still has a lot of healing to go through, both mentally and physically. We keep the innuendos flying just to make people wonder, but the truth is that we have to be very careful. We’re both more than aware of how serious her injuries were—I couldn’t cope with setting back her progress.”

Hermione inwardly berated herself. She had been so caught up in her own sexual dalliances that she had ridiculously assumed that George and Luna were engaging in the same. She should have known that their conversations were full of bravado, most likely to help Luna feel normal and wanted. She felt like a self-centred idiot.

“And, the reality is that she’ll be leaving in a couple of weeks and I don’t want to set up a situation where she feels rejected, or any sense of loss, not after what she’s been through.”

Again, Hermione reflected upon her own actions with Snape and how short-sighted they now seemed. _Fuck_.

“She’s truly remarkable. You both are,” she said, regarding him with genuine affection.

George snorted dispassionately and shook his head. There was something else troubling him.

“I spent some time with Shaun this morning.” Hermione wondered if this might be the source of his discontent. “Have you managed to see him yet?”

“Not yet.” George crossed his arms and looked out at the bird bath which was full of leaves.

“What is it, George?”

He sighed heavily. Hermione had never seen him so troubled.

“Have you ever wondered why people so desperate to live, die and why people so desperate to die, live?” he asked, his voice strangely distant.

Hermione inhaled deeply and gazed up at the ashen sky.

“Percy told us that Fred desperately tried to cling on to life. After the explosion. He didn’t die straight away. He was so badly hurt but he fought, ‘Mione. You know how much he loved life. More than anyone I’ve ever known.”

The tears started to flow for both of them.

“Is that what you meant by closeness being relative?” Hermione's voice wavered, as she placed her hand over his.

“He was my twin, ‘Mione.” George drew in a shuddering breath. “We were like the same person; twice over. It’s like losing a part of myself. I just . . . this thing with Shaun. I know it’s wrong. I just can’t stop thinking about what it would have done to Luna, to everyone, if Snape hadn’t been there. And trying to reconcile the soul that wishes to leave with the one that wishes to stay. Both don’t get what they want and both are tragic.”

Hermione squeezed his hand even more tightly as the tears continued to flow. There was nothing she could say.

***

Hermione knew it wasn’t a good time to confront Lynch. Not straight after her conversation with George. But her discussions with Severus had been on a constant loop in her mind and she needed it to stop, to seek some sort of resolution, no matter how uncomfortable it was.

Knocking on his office door, she turned the handle and opened it. “Lynch?”

There was no answer but she noticed that his bedroom door was ajar. She’d never had a reason to go in there in the entire time she’d been at the Retreat but wondered now if he might be in there, or in the bathroom.

“Lynch?” She pushed the bedroom door open. It was empty. And she could see enough of the bathroom to know he wasn’t there either.

Turning to go, her attention was drawn to a row of pictures on his bookshelf. The closest one was the photo that had arrived on his birthday. His wife, blowing kisses and waving. She was a very beautiful woman. Hermione wondered why she hardly ever visited and why Lynch seemed so willing to jeopardise their relationship. It didn’t make a lot of sense.

Then she examined the other photographs beside the first. There was one with a woman crouching beside a little girl. The girl had almost white hair and her blue eyes were as striking as Lynch’s. She was laughing and jumping up and down with a balloon around her wrist. And the woman . . . Hermione blinked. Picking up the photo, she peered closer at it. Then she picked up the picture of the woman blowing kisses and waving. They were so similar. In fact, Hermione could swear they were the same person. But that was impossible. Wasn’t she . . .

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

Hermione spun around to see Lynch standing in the doorway. He didn't look angry but she was instantly on edge. Normally she would have returned the photographs with a quick apology, but she was still upset at what Snape had disclosed and starting to feel progressively more uneasy. She needed to know what was going on.

“Is this the same woman?” She eyed him warily as she turned the photographs toward him.

He sighed heavily and crossed his arms, the muscles bulging under his shirt.

“In some ways.”

Hermione’s heart was thudding in her ears.

“I want to know what’s going on.” Her voice was low and even, despite her rising panic.

Lynch took a step forward, his blue eyes piercing her so intently that she felt her skin starting to prickle.

“Hermione, I’ve never told anyone. And if I tell you, it's going to change the way you feel about me.” His sing-song lilt, that had always been somewhat amusing, now seemed to mock her with its unnatural levity.

Hermione was breathing through her mouth. Should she just get out of there? Get away before she heard something that she couldn’t un-hear?

But she wasn’t a Gryffindor for nothing. Bravery was in her blood and she stood her ground.

“Tell me.”

His body seemed iron-clad in its rigidity, as if every single muscle was on high alert.

“Do you want to sit down?”

“No.”

He licked his bottom lip in nervous discomfort. “As you know, my wife and daughter were killed in the war. That’s them in the picture.” He nodded toward the photograph in Hermione’s hand. “I never married again.”

“So who is this?” Hermione held up the other photograph. “This arrived on your birthday. I saw you open it. I recognise her, she’s been to the Retreat.”

“She’s . . . a friend.”

“A friend who happens to look identical to your wife.”

Lynch sighed and stared at the ground, frowning deeply. 

“She’s a friend who I pay to Polyjuice every now and again because I’m a sad old fuck and could never bear to let the love of my life go.”

As though in slow motion, Hermione slid the photographs back onto the shelf before putting a trembling hand to her lips. _Gods!_

His eyes were glassy as his gaze returned to her. “It’s sick, I know. But the occasional visit, a letter, a photograph, and I could almost pretend she was still here, just separated from me by distance, not death.”

Hermione was so shocked, she could only stare at him.

“I know Snape told you about our discussions. I’m sorry Hermione, I don’t really know how to tell you this. I always thought, if you ever wanted me, you would be the one person who could help me to move on. To let her go.”

 _Oh Fuck_.

 

 


	20. A Steady Hand

“Are you alright?” Snape swept Hermione into his room as she strode past on her way back from Lynch’s office.

“It’s too much.” She shook her head, clutching at the front of his shirt as he leaned protectively over her. “I can’t deal with it. I need you to come tonight.”

“Of course.”

She lunged at him, sucking ravenously on his lips as she breathed heavily through her nose, on the verge of tears. Before she could cry, she broke off, fleeing to her office and closing the door with a bang.

***

As soon as he entered her bedroom, Hermione rolled off the bed and approached him.

“I’m so glad you came,” she whispered.

Taking his hand in both of hers, she pulled him toward the bed.

“I need you to do . . . things . . . to me.” Her brow was painfully knotted with a mixture of despair and naked craving.  

Placing both hands on her shoulders, he regarded her intently. “There’s something else you need first.”

Pulling her to his chest, he threaded his fingers into her hair, gently massaging her scalp. And she began to melt. Then the tears came. She wrapped her arms around him and sobbed into his shirt until it was soaked. Leaning back, she sobbed even more at the mess she‘d created. He cast a quick drying spell to calm her, then took the handkerchief from his pocket, wiping her face with slow, gentle caresses.

“I must look a sight.” She gave a watery smile.

“You do,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss each eyelid with soft, full lips, before blazing a sensuous trail down the side of her face and finally capturing her mouth. She pushed into him, returning the kiss with such needy fervour that he instantly picked her up and carried her to the bed, their faces writhing together like mating serpents.

He had to grasp her chin in order to pull away from her avaricious feasting, but her eyes still implored him, desperate for more.

“Do you want to talk about what happened today?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Then you will need to be more specific with what you want from me,” he murmured, running his fingertips over her lips, which were already swelling from their initial bruising encounter.

She sighed against his fingers, feeling some of the tension already beginning to ebb away.

“I want you to fuck me so hard that I can feel it for days. I need to know that you were inside me, to ground me when my mind starts to wind up again. I also want you to fuck my arse with your fingers. And I want you to spank me at the same time. I need it to hurt.”

Severus frowned down at her, his black eyes searching hers. She looked desperate but also determined and he was satisfied that she was capable of making a rational choice.  

“You’ve asked for a lot of things you’ve never done before.”

She nodded. “I understand.”

“It could be overwhelming.”

“That’s what I want. I need to get to that place where my mind shuts off. There is so much going on in there at the moment, it’s making me feel crazy. I need you to take me there, Severus.” Her eyes pleaded with him.

“Do you want me to use my hand on you or something else? A paddle. A crop?”

“Your hand. I need to feel you.”

He gave a brief nod. “You have your safe word.” His voice had taken on an edge, the clipped tone she associated with him in dominant mode.

Her heart instantly accelerated as she nodded. She had her safe word but she knew she wouldn’t be using it. She wanted whatever he was going to give her and on some level she was also interested in knowing what he would do if he had free reign over her body.

Standing, he pulled her up to him and wandlessly removed their clothes before turning her to face the bed.

“I want you on all fours in the middle,” he instructed.

Although her heart was racing, she felt more relaxed than she had the entire day. It was as though she had just handed over the reins for a wild horse to an experienced horseman. She trusted him enough to know that she would be safe.

She crawled into the middle of the bed, her bare backside facing him.

Taking his wand from the shelf, he knelt behind her.

“This might feel a little odd. I’m going to cast a cleansing spell on your back passage, just so you’re not concerned about what might happen in the heat of the moment. I’m also going to cast a muscle relaxing spell. It’ll help things run a little more smoothly.”

She appreciated his delicate use of words. It was unusual for him to be so considerate in this mode. He flicked his wand and suddenly she felt a cooling sensation roll through her bowels. It was peculiar but not uncomfortable. Then he jerked his other hand and the jar of lubricant shot into his palm.

Dropping both wand and jar onto the bed, he placed one warm hand in the middle of her back and the other on her shoulder, pushing her down so that her head rested against her bent forearms and her buttocks gradually spread like opening petals.

“I want you to speak freely throughout this session. The objective of this release, as I’m sure you are aware, extends beyond the domain of sex.”

She nodded, more than attuned to his words. But she still marvelled at the depth of his understanding about the psychological, emotional and, even, spiritual elements of sex. He was an endless revelation to her.

She closed her eyes and waited.

The first thing she felt were his palms gliding down her lower back and over the soft curve of her cheeks before his thumbs slid down her exposed crevices until they were positioned on either side of her labia. He spread her lips wide and suddenly his warm tongue was delving between her slick folds, sliding down to flick at the swollen nub of her clitoris. Moaning quietly, she pushed her knees wider, granting him better access. With his tongue flattened into a firm pad, he wiggled it over the straining head of her clitoris, causing her to push back into the bold curve of his nose, which slid into her opening.  

“Uuuhhhh.” She turned her mouth against the crook of her elbow, feeling she was going to need something to scream into when the time came.

After sliding his nose in and around her juicy slot, he licked his way back up through her inner lips before she felt his cooling breath at the stretched opening to her hole. He had spread her pussy so wide that his breath made it feel cavernous. That was until his tongue suddenly plunged inside and started digging forcefully against her walls, stretching and stimulating them as he worked each angle in preparation for his cock.

Her ravenous channel clamped onto him with every thrust of his tongue and her hips started rocking, trying to gain enough purchase on his muscle to fuck herself.

“Severus, that feels so . . . goooood.” She almost squealed as he withdrew from her with a loud slurp.

She felt herself pouting at the loss of that exquisitely experienced organ until both sets of his fingers started to climb higher, pulling apart the flesh of her cheeks.

“Uuuhhh!” she moaned as she felt the tip of his tongue touch down on the puckered skin around her anus. It felt so indescribably intimate she burrowed her face into her arm, unsure of how to accept what he was doing to her. But she wouldn’t be asking him to stop, not now that he was pushing gently into the tight ring of muscle, causing it to contract reflexively with each plunge and her pussy to pulse in time.

Then his fingers, those masterful digits, slid below his chin to claim her cunt. One finger and then a second were buried inside her to the hilt before he began rotating his wrist on each stroke, twisting inside her and reaming her with his knuckles as his tongue continued to fuck her tight hole.

“That’s . . . that’s . . . ooohhhh.” She couldn’t describe the sensation except that she knew she wasn’t far off coming.

She panted, her breasts rising and falling from the bed as his hand twisted in her pussy until his fingers were facing downward and his thumb began to thrum away on her bulging clitoris.

“Severus,” she moaned. “You’re going to make me come if you keep . . . uuunnnnhhhh!”

Her neck arched off the bed as her legs began to shudder and convulse with the force of her contractions. His face could no longer stay even close to her buttocks as she bucked spasmodically, riding his fingers into a creamy lather before collapsing onto the bed, heaving and twitching.

“Uhhh . . . that was amazing,” she moaned. “But it didn’t hurt . . . at all. Not even a little bit.”

“You were too tense.” There was a note of amusement in his voice as he rubbed her lower back. “I needed to bring your anxiety down a degree or two before trying what you wanted.”

“Does that mean we get to go again?” She smiled, rolling over to take in his slick lips and tousled hair.

He smiled in return. “If that’s what you want.”

“When it comes to you, I don’t seem to want anything else.” She grimaced at her own lasciviousness.

“My, my, Dr Granger, look how far you’ve come.” He regarded her with an affectionate wink.

“I hope you’ll make me come a lot further too,” she murmured, hooking her hand around his neck and dragging him down to latch onto his face, indulging in his heady marination of pussy, arse and saliva. The taste, smell and texture infused her with such a primal urge for more that she grasped his bobbing cock, ready to imbibe the contents.

He grabbed her by the wrist. “I think you’ve forgotten who’s in charge here.” His expression was stern but there was an amused glint in the recesses of his dark eyes. The truth was that he was being far more lenient with her this time. She suspected it was because he knew just how fragile she felt.

“Sorry, sir,” she murmured meekly, reluctantly dragging her fingers away from his velvety length.

“When you’re ready, I want you back in position.” He picked up the jar of lubricant and unscrewed the lid, dipping his finger in to remove a generous amount.

Hermione scrabbled back onto her knees. Her pussy was still swollen and ticking but she was desperate to continue with her ‘Snape Therapy’.

“Hold your cheeks apart,” he instructed.

It was a little awkward, but she managed to rest her head sideways on the bed and hook her hands around her buttocks, spreading them apart. She was so exposed but, in some ways, she wanted to show him. Judging by his rock-hard erection, she knew he enjoyed looking at and touching her. No doubt, her puckered hole, flaring in preparation for his touch was part of the eroticism, as it had been for her when she’d fucked him with the vibrator.

“I’m going to take this slowly,” he rumbled. “You know what to do.”

Following her own instructions, she took a deep breath, held it and bore down against the slippery fingertip that he’d placed at her entrance. Gradually he pressed into her, forcing his digit into her virgin opening until her muscles began to spasm around him.

She grimaced against the burn and was glad that he waited until her clenching passage, which was trying desperately to expel him, had calmed. Rubbing his strong thumb in firm strokes up the outer muscles of her buttocks, he triggered her inner muscles to relax as he pushed deeper.

Her breaths shortened and she tried to slow them in an effort to control the discomfort. Mercifully, he always seemed to know when it was becoming too much, halting in his progress and allowing her body to adjust, rubbing the right pressure points to stop her convulsing.

It certainly wasn’t the most comfortable experience Hermione’d ever had and she instantly reflected upon the speed with which she’d inserted the phallus into him. She probably could have taken it a bit easier. She’d remember that for next time.

The pain had subsided to a dull throb and she wondered just how far he’d managed to get. Then he withdrew slightly from her before sliding his finger back into place. Stop. Again, he gently pulled out and pushed back, progressing in small increments that had her muscular constriction clamping him again in a digital stranglehold. A deep moan escaped her but he kept up the slow thrusting movements and she felt herself relaxing into the sensation.

Her forehead rested against her arm as she focused on the feelings that this novel intrusion was conjuring. It stirred up her core, as did anything impaling her pussy, but it also seemed to tap into a depth of tension that pulled at her insides, concurrently opening up the emotional constrictions within her. She began to shudder. He stopped.

“Do you need to use your safe word?”

“No,” she grunted. “Keep going. I need this.”

He continued to slide his finger in and out, twisting it slightly to increase the torsional stimulation.

“Can I please have your cock too?” she murmured against the bed.

Within seconds, she felt his warm velvety head against her dripping pussy. He halted the digit in her anus as he focused on pushing his cock into her channel, having to work against the engorged resistance from her previous orgasm. When he finally managed to bury himself fully inside her, he began to thrust, alternating the deep plunges of his rigid cock with the sliding of his finger which was noticeably redder than the rest from the work of her constricting muscles. 

“Shiiit,” she breathed into the crook of her elbow. This new dynamic was making her body do all sorts of things it had never done before.

“Are you ready for another finger?”

“Just give me a second,” she murmured, breathing through the waves of sensations that were rolling through her. “I might need another relaxing spell. I’m still feeling pretty tight.”

He picked up his wand from the bed and she heard him mutter a few words. Instantly her back passage seemed to release its stranglehold on him.

“Okay.” She nodded against the bed.

This time, he didn’t stop thrusting his cock into her as he slid the tip of a second digit into the tight ring of her anus. She suspected that he wanted to distract her from the sensation and this was confirmed when his other hand slid down to rub at her clitoris, providing a further jolt of pleasure that allowed him to push deeper.  

Her chin arched into her chest as she let the sensations crash over her. Despite the intensity, her mind was feeling lighter, like she was letting go, drifting away into oblivion. She was barely aware of the burning in her back passage as he worked his fingers into her. His cock continued to pound her pussy as his other hand worked her clitoris, never over- or under-stimulating but keeping a steady rhythm that woke the snake of coiling tension inside her.

If he continued for much longer, she’d be gone again. She needed the final part.

“Please spank me, sir,” she rasped, her voice seeming to have exited with her mind.

Sliding the hand from her clitoris, he straightened and gave her a few long strokes with his cock and fingers, forcing them together through her thin wall. She moaned again, her head rocking to the side so she could draw breath.

Without warning, his hard palm landed a stinging blow on her cheek. Her entire body convulsed, squeezing around the rigid insertions that continued to plunge into her, causing a jolt of such intensity to strike at her core that she thought she was going to pass out. He seemed to sense this as the second blow didn’t come until after her breathing had normalised.

She cried out with the second, less from the pain than from the seismic waves of contractions that it triggered inside her. Her muscular undulations against his cock and fingers were collapsing into one another, making the pressure within her pelvis build to epic proportions.

Despite the fact that her body felt ready to go into nuclear fusion, she knew that he was being absolutely restrained. She had given him permission to do what he wished with her and yet she could feel he was doing everything to work with her body, rather than against it. When his palm landed the third time, she felt nothing but gratitude. To be taken to such a deep place by someone so adept made her feel both protected and fortunate. She felt special.

And when the fourth landed, she came. Screaming into the bedcovers, she let her body go. Shuddering and convulsing violently, she felt his fingers curling and shaking within her back passage, drawing out the intense seizing of her orgasm. The pressure shot a stream of juice from her pummelled urethra which she felt running down her thighs as her pelvis bucked around uncontrollably. She was concerned that she might have dislodged him but then heard his tell-tale grunts and suddenly he was roaring behind her, pounding his seed into her channel as he came into her over and over again.

They collapsed together in a gasping mass of flesh and Hermione lay face down against the covers, drifting in a state of semi-consciousness before he pulled her to his chest and buried his face in her hair.

“Are you alright?” his soothing voice seemed to wrap itself around her heart.

She could only nod.

Unaware of how long they lay like that, she was suddenly aroused by his deep voice.

“I should get back.”

“No.” She clutched at his chest. “I need you with me. Just tonight. Please.”

He didn’t respond but wrapped his strong arms more tightly around her. 

There was a loud knock on the door.

She sat up. The room was light. It was morning.

Suddenly someone barged in, shaggy-haired and bleary-eyed. It was George.

“Shaun’s gone.”

 

 


	21. Healing Hands

When Hermione stumbled into the activities room, everyone else was already gathered there, decidedly grim and rumpled from the worrying start to their day. Lynch, in particular, looked like hell as he stared around the group with bloodshot eyes. She suspected he hadn’t slept, and the look he gave her when she entered, not long after Snape, told her that he was still in the grips of the pain that she’d left him with when she’d fled his office.

“As you all know.” His, normally, booming voice was strained. “Shaun’s missing. We need to split up and look for him. I suggest we work in pairs. George and I will take the brooms. The rest of you can go on foot. Let’s start by checking the river . . .

“Wait!”

Everyone turned to Luna, who was regarding the front door with a faraway look in her silvery eyes. “The Thestrals,” she breathed, “they’ve returned.” She kept staring as though trying to decipher something before she took a deep breath and started running for the door. “They’re taking us to Shaun.”

The group followed in single file, keeping up with her fast walk as she rounded the side of the building and continued on toward the rear. But rather than following any of the established paths, she waded directly into a pile of damp leaves that stuck, like papier mache, to her boots and jeans. Unperturbed, she forged on, her gaze focused directly ahead. She continued up a slight hill with George only a step behind, the rest of the group following in anxious silence, their breaths puffing out on the still air like a procession of steam trains. Just then, she turned and homed in on a dark alcove amongst a group of odd trees, huddled together as though in conspiratorial conversation.

Hermione felt a hand on her arm. It was Pomona Sprout. “I think he did it,” she whispered.

Hermione frowned down at the woman who wore an oddly bewildered expression.

“Who did what?” she whispered back.

“Snape. He did it,” Pomona repeated.

Hermione stared at her in confusion. “Professor Snape? What did he do?”

Pomona nodded ahead. “The Glade. That’s where Shaun is. It must have called to him.”

“I’m sorry Pomona, I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.” Hermione could feel the tension beginning to rise.

“Hasn’t he told you?” She looked genuinely shocked.

Hermione shook her head. “I’m really not sure . . . “

Pomona squeezed her arm. “Wait and see, my girl,” she said quietly. “Just wait and see.”

Slowing as she approached the trees, Luna ducked under a twisted vine before proceeding into the relative darkness. The others followed and when Hermione entered she noticed that the vines were knotted together overhead into a natural canopy, blocking out much of the sunlight. Through the gloom she saw that the entire area beyond the trees was bordered by the gentle curve of a sheer rock-face. And at the very centre of this natural enclosure, eerily lit, was a large clearing. A lone figure lay within it, completely still. It was Shaun.

Luna slowly approached him, her thin body silhouetted against the unnatural glow. But just as George pushed forward, ready to reach out to Shaun, Luna grabbed him by the arm. “No,” she whispered. “Leave him. The Thestrals say he’s alright.”

Everyone else fanned out, gazing at the incredible scene before them. The entire clearing was filled with hundreds and hundreds of sunflowers, the heads of which shone like golden lamps, lighting up the lush mat of green grass that rolled out between them. To Hermione, Shaun’s face looked young, almost childlike, in the mystical light from the sunflowers. The lines of tension seemed to have disappeared and the light rise and fall of his chest suggested that he was sleeping.

She could feel the warmth radiating from the flowers and turned to Pomona who clutched at her arm again.

“Isn’t it wonderful?”

“What is this?” Hermione blinked in bewilderment.

“It’s 'The Glade',” replied Pomona proudly.

“But where did it all come from?”

“Rhizomes,” Pomona answered matter-of-factly.

“Rhizomes?”

“Oh, I keep forgetting that you’re into human anatomy, not plant anatomy. Professor Snape magically altered the sunflower seeds to create rhizomes. It enables them to extend runners under the ground and to sprout up, much like ferns. But these ones have been springing up like you wouldn’t believe. He is absolutely brilliant, that man. We found this location on one of our walks and he said the natural quartzite in the surrounding rock creates a type of crucible for magical amplification that could enable just about anything to flourish here. Look over there.” She pointed to a group of plants beyond the clearing. "That’s the calendula, ficklewort, aloe vera and other herbs he uses for Luna’s burns. Over there are the rosehip, soursop and chicory that he brews for her tea. The plants over there, she gestured, he's used to create a tonic for Sarah. Those plants are Dennis’.” She suddenly hid her mouth behind her hand. “Although I think they might be more recreational than medicinal, if you know what I mean. But, boy, is he a more relaxed lad now!”

Hermione gazed around in wonder at the neat beds of strange and exotic herbs, fungi, ferns, shrubs, flowers and other species that had been segregated within the clearing. “Did you collect all of these yourselves?”

“Oh no, I had a lot of them owled to me. We did find some on our walks but, in reality, absolutely anything will grow here. There’s belladonna, puffapod, gurdyroot and even a small patch of asophdel and snakeweed over in the corner. The best part is that Snape has created a magical illumination system to provide exactly the right wavelength of light, for the perfect duration, to maximise growth. And all this without his wand. I’ve never known a wizard like him.”

Hermione now noticed that each bed was illuminated by, what looked like, small floating lamps of different hues and intensities. As she watched, they seemed to bob and undulate in response to some unseen force.

“So why all the sunflowers?” Hermione regarded the striking sea of shining yellow faces.

“Emotional healing, my dear,” Pomona beamed. “Snape said right from the beginning that the Retreat was most in need of them. In fact, the ones he's grown here are, by far, the most powerful I've ever encountered. I'm almost positive that’s why Shaun was drawn to this place. Sunflower magic calls to those most in need.”

Hermione felt so overwhelmed that her chest was starting to ache. Just then, Ellory pushed gently past her, making her way over to where Shaun lay. As she crouched down, Hermione expected her to attempt to wake Shaun, but instead she lay down beside him, under the warm glow of the flower heads, and closed her eyes.

Next to her, Hermione was dimly aware of Dennis taking Sarah’s hand. He led her to another patch of flowers where they both sat down, reclining together in the soft light. Next, Luna reached out for both of George’s hands, grasping them tightly in hers as she looked up into his face. Hermione could tell from her expression that she was more than aware of George’s sadness. Gently guiding him to a spot on the soft grass, they settled down to lay side by side, elbows touching.

Hermione turned. Snape was standing directly behind her, his arms folded and a finger resting on his upper lip. She looked at him hard and he gave an, almost imperceptible, nod. Then she hooked her arm through Lynch’s and walked with him to a spot away from the others where they crouched down amongst the flowers. He lay on his back and she on her front, propped on her elbows. It was as much for physical as practical reasons. She wouldn’t be sitting comfortably on her bottom for quite a while and she was more than happy about it.

Folding his hands behind his head, he regarded her in weary silence.

“Lynch, you know that Severus and I have had an ‘arrangement’ for some time now?” she murmured quietly.

He stared intently at her, his blue eyes moving slowly over her face, before finally nodding. “He told me as much.”

“You should know that I have feelings for him.”

His mouth twitched and then settled into a line of acceptance. “I thought you might. He’s a good man.”

Hermione blinked rapidly. She hadn’t quite expected that response.

“You’re a good man too. I respect you. I love what you’ve done here and I really want to keep working for you. But . . .” She took a deep breath. “You need help, Lynch. You need to get away from here and receive some proper treatment.”

He sighed, rubbing his head against his hands. “I know it . . . I’ve known it for a long time. But . . . it’s always seemed too hard. I’ve needed to keep this place running—as much for me as for the patients. It’s what’s kept me sane . . . well . . .” He looked away, embarrassed.

Hermione took one of his calloused hands in hers. “You don’t need to worry about the Retreat. George, Simone and I can take care of this place while you’re away. There’s no reason for us to stop treating people. We’ll just have to adjust our intake for the time that you’re gone. It’s much more important that you get well. We need you.”

He closed his eyes. “There may be an extra pair of hands to help out in the future anyway.”

“Really? Who?”

He paused and tilted his head toward the nearest sunflower, soaking up its healing rays.

“I’ve asked Snape to maintain this place—to keep growing therapeutic plants, and brewing potions and salves for the Retreat. We can even sell them to bring in funds for more resources.”

Hermione nearly choked.

“But . . . but he’s going back to Hogwarts.”

“Is he?” Lynch opened his eyes to regard her intently. “Have you asked him?”

Hermione realised that she had never had that conversation with him. It had always seemed too difficult to broach.

“Are you telling me you knew about what he was doing here all along?”

“I discovered it in one of my fly-overs. It was early days, but it’s really taken off since then. The location seems to be the key. And the patients are already benefitting—if Luna’s recovery and Shaun’s attraction to this place are any gauge. This is something we've never been able to offer before—and perhaps now we can.”

“What did he say?” Hermione asked anxiously. “What did Severus say when you offered for him to continue here?”

Lynch’s eyes returned to hers and he squeezed her hand. “He said that the decision was up to you.”

Hermione looked over at the tall dark figure leaning against the shadowy trunk of a tree. Even without seeing his eyes, she knew he was watching her.

After a long pause, she turned to Lynch. “We’ll look after this place for you,” she nodded, before rising and striding away through the swaying sunflowers.

When she reached him she didn’t wait, grasping his face in her hands and pulling him down to her open mouth. His arms slipped around her and he pulled her close as they kissed deeply, passionately, before she took his hand and led him away.

“I think you have a bit of explaining to do,” she said without looking at him. “And I think we should start with an explanation in the shower, followed by an explanation on my desk and, finally, an explanation from behind, with me looking out at the perfect view from my window and you explaining to me what you keep inside your pockets.”

“I believe I can accommodate that.”

His silky voice instantly made her shiver and she quickened her pace.

 

 


	22. A Warm Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, so here we are at the final official chapter of this story before the epilogue. If you have any feedback or thoughts, I always love to hear from you. Thanks to all of you who have taken the time to drop me a line so far, it has significantly contributed to the evolution of this story. Until next time, DSx

“Have you found my explanations . . . satisfactory?”

Severus’ voice, deep and breathy, was punctuated by tight pauses as he thrust into her from behind.

She nodded. The truth was that she’d found them more than satisfactory. In fact, they had been so exceedingly satisfactory that she was on the verge of coming again.

Pressing her hands to the window, she braced herself against the vigorous ingressions of his slamming cock. She was pleased that everyone was at lunch so that she could enjoy this moment—gazing out across the most stunning vista in the world and being fucked by the sexiest man she could possibly imagine.

“Are you going to come for me?” he rumbled in her ear.

Of course she was. She just couldn’t say it.

*

“Looks like you don’t need to bother spying on them anymore.” George pointed up at the window at the back of the Retreat where they had a clear, full-length view of a naked Hermione being taken from behind by an equally-naked Severus.

Luna looked up from where she’d been collecting pinecones for the bonfire.

“Wow.” She smiled. “They really seem to be enjoying their time together.” They watched as Hermione arched back into Severus, his mouth grazing down the side of her neck. “I wouldn’t mind trying that position.”

“I’m sure it could be arranged,” replied George, the playful glint returning to his eyes.

“Except we’d probably have to ditch the nipple clamps,” added Luna, squinting closer at the two gyrating figures.

“No, they wouldn’t go well with your burns,” admitted George.

“Or the gag.”

“Yes, that might also be painful.” George nodded.

“And I’m not sure about that black claw-thing on his hand.”

“I think we could manage without that too.” George put a hand on her shoulder. “Do you want to wait until they’re done?”

Luna turned to him and dropped her pinecones. “Not when I have the real thing.” She smiled, leaning up to kiss him before leading him back down the path to the Retreat.

***

“How are you going to tell Professor McGonagall of your decision?” Hermione let Severus pull her up the hill. The morning’s ‘explanations’ had left her feeling decidedly fatigued.

“By owl, I would imagine.”

Hermione huffed. “You know what I mean.”

“I’m not sure Minerva ever expected that I would actually take up the offer.” His long strides took them toward the dark alcove amongst the trees.

“So why did you come to Galladdon for treatment if you had no intention of taking up the position?”

“I didn’t say I had no intention. It was just fortunate timing in many ways. I’d had enough of Muggle television and my own company after eight years and decided that it was time to get on with my life. But I wasn’t under any illusions. I knew that I was unlikely to find employment until my health record, particularly my mental health, could be professionally validated. It’s not like my history isn’t known throughout the wizarding world. No employer in their right mind would take me on without some sort of assurances. So it seemed a good opportunity to get the tick of approval and look into my options. The Hogwarts offer was really just the catalyst.”

Hermione followed quietly as they ducked under the vines into the shadowy recess between the trees.

“Do you think you’re ready for the tick of approval?”

“That’s your call,” he said, guiding them through the tunnel of branches. “Do you think I’m ready?”

Hermione tutted. “In my professional opinion, I actually believe that you require many, many more months of intensive therapy.”

“Really?” he drawled over his shoulder. “And just how intensive would you recommend this . . . therapy . . . to be?” His tone had dropped lower; he was clearly interested.  

“Probably about as intensive as it gets.” She could hear the gravel in her own voice as they approached the clearing.

“Perhaps you need to show me.” He turned to face her. “Just . . . how . . . intensive . . . you mean.”

“Severus, we’re supposed to be preparing an inventory of botanical produce.” Hermione grinned.

“Right after I prepare an inventory of your produce, something may have gone missing since I last looked.” He pulled her into him and ground his swelling erection against her stomach.

“Well, my nipples nearly went missing after those clamps.” Hermione’s brow furrowed at her recollection.

“You don’t have to wear them again.”

“Now, I didn’t say that.” She smiled mischievously before leading him into the middle of the sunflowers. “You just might have to kiss them better.”

“If I must,” he sighed, giving an elegant flourish of his hand that instantly caused her clothes to fall away, her nipples now straining only a breath away from his lips.

“Gods, Severus.” Hermione leaned over the strong arm at her waist, exposing herself even further. “Do you think it’s possible to go from a prude to a nymphomaniac in four weeks?”

He chuckled deep in his throat. “If you have the right teacher.”

“Yessss,” she breathed as his warm mouth closed over one of her nipples, still throbbing from their clamping only hours before.

But rather than the firm and passionate laving she was used to, this dalliance with his tongue was exquisitely tender. It felt positively therapeutic as his sensuous lips trailed kisses over her rouged mounds before blowing them gently to soothe the dull ache.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, digging in and holding tight, reminding herself of his presence and proximity. That hair that had been the signature of a man whom she’d always thought of as cold and distant, she now associated with a man of passion, courage, tenderness and care, in equal measure.

Undressing him slowly in the golden light of the sunflowers, exposing one lean, muscular limb at a time, seemed like an enticing idea until she realised how desperate she was to have him inside her. Her wand was back at the Retreat.

“I need you naked,” she murmured into the top of his head.

Sighing heavily against her breast, more to arouse her further than to demonstrate his annoyance, he straightened before removing his own clothing with an equally impressive flourish. His cock swayed with their rapid exit, much like the sunflowers that were beaming around them. Stepping forward, she pressed his length between their bodies, sliding herself against him, just to feel the silken warmth against her skin.

She could tell from the tight groan that squeezed from his throat with her mounting friction, that he wanted her as badly as she wanted him. Placing both hands upon the smattering of downy hair adorning his chest, she slithered down his body, her fingertips brushing over his nipples which pebbled instantly, before rippling over the muscles of his abdomen until she was kneeling on the velvety grass with his cock resting against her cheek.

Looking up into his onyx eyes, she rubbed her lips back and forth against his head, feeling it jerk and twitch in anticipation.

“I want you to fuck my face,” she murmured against his member.

She had been struck by Dennis’ words weeks before, ‘When you love someone, you let them use you in the ways they need to.’ They somehow felt important in terms of Severus’ growing acceptance of his needs and his willingness to fulfil them. This would be another step in their burgeoning mutual trust.

Tentatively, he threaded his hands into her thick hair, drawing the locks together before wrapping them around one fist. Then, pulling down gently to lift her chin, he grasped the shaft of his cock and guided the bulging head back to her lips. He ran it across her soft pads, intently watching its course as his broad shoulders oscillated with each deepening breath.

“Tongue out,” he instructed.

Her heart jumped with that voice.

Carefully, she extended the moist pink tip until it kissed the head of his cock. Using her hair to guide her, he moved her tongue in circles while he held his cock in place. She licked around and over the head before he drew her up the centre of his slit, capturing his precum on her tip. Being used as a sex object for him to fulfil his own erotic desires was intensely arousing for her as well, and she felt herself already creaming heavily between her thighs.

“Open your mouth.” His voice was an even more potent lubricant.

Without hesitation she obeyed, tipping her head back slightly so she could capture his response—the twitching cleft of his brow and the slight parting of his lips as he pushed his girth into the waiting heat of her mouth. Tugging gently on her hair, he slid his cock in a circular motion around the insides of her cheeks, his face angled in concentration as if he were working a piece of timber into a hand-operated lathe. She could tell he was acclimating her, stretching her, in preparation for accepting more.

“Suck me. . . gently.”

She drew in her cheeks, creating a vacuum around the rigid flesh that continued to swell further inside the encouraging chamber of her mouth. As she brought her tongue into effect, tightening the seal around him, his head pitched forward, a sharp breath hissing between his gritted teeth.

“Gently,” he groaned, bringing his other hand down to grasp her jaw, loosening her hold on him.

She swirled her tongue around his helmet and his brow relaxed visibly as he released the breath he’d been holding.

“I’m going deeper now.” His voice already seemed to have gone there.

Keeping one hand in her hair, he brought the other down to cup her cheek as he began to thrust, his hips driving his cock further into her mouth, stretching her lips and pushing toward the pulsing constriction of her throat. He grunted as she spasmed around him.

“I’m just going to . . . relax your throat,” he murmured, whispering a spell as he drew his finger down the line of her neck, causing the gagging sensation to abate.

As he pushed further, she concentrated on breathing through her nose and matching the movements of her tongue and cheeks with the speed and depth of his thrusts. His mouth dropped open and his eyelids fluttered closed as her muscles pulsed around him.

“Uuuhhh, Hermione that is . . . perfection,” he breathed before gradually reducing his rocking and slowly pulling out, his hyper-engorged cock trailing strands of saliva down her chin.

Dropping onto his knees, he lunged at her lips, which were stretched and sensitive from trying to accommodate his considerable girth. Lapping and sucking at them, he worked out the tension, before sliding inside to thank her tongue with his own. She responded by sucking him into her, giving his tongue a similar workout to his cock until he moaned deeply and pulled away.

Breathing heavily, he rested his forehead against hers. “I’m going to come if you keep doing that. I want you to ride me.”

Nodding, she swallowed down the pooled saliva that had accumulated in her mouth. He sat his bare backside on the grass and reclined, pulling her onto his chest. Sliding her knees up, she straddled him, her pussy instantly looking to rub itself against his cock.

“Do you need me to . . . prepare you?” he asked.

“Does this answer your question?” She placed her hands against his chest as she slid herself along his member, leaving a shiny trail of arousal.

He smiled up at her, open and genuine. He’d been doing that a lot lately. “I can’t tell you how impressed I am,” he said.

“Yes you can.” She lifted herself higher on her knees and grasped his cock, tacky from her saliva. “Even though I’m an insufferable know-it-all, I actually need to hear that sort of thing once in a while.”

Then she placed his head at her opening and gradually lowered herself down, impaling her pussy upon his shaft as she drew in deep, appreciative breaths. She revelled in the heady sensation of her channel being filled to capacity, her nasal passages being reamed with exotic herbal scents, her naked skin absorbing the healing warmth from the dozens of flowers that surrounded them and, finally, the saturation of her gaze with the sight of this man, severely sexy, who had come to mean so much to her in such a short time.

But when she finally bottomed out, her clitoris nestling in the fuzzy warmth of his pubic hair, she was even more surprised when he took both of her hands in his, interlocking their fingers.

“Ride me until we come and I’ll tell you just how impressed I am.” His voice was rich and creamy and she had a feeling it was going to be the balm that she needed.  

Bracing herself against his arms, she rocked her hips forward as she slid up, gliding along his member before allowing herself to dip back down, clenching the muscles of her core to clamp around his broad base. And then she repeated the cycle.

“I’m impressed by you on a multitude of levels.” He sighed, his body clearly responding to her slow milking of his cock. “You are undoubtedly smart, caring, thoughtful and compassionate but what I’ve seen in my time here is a willingness to . . . “

He winced as she began rocking harder, squeezing his cock deep inside her. She couldn’t help it, she was getting off on his words of praise. She didn’t hear them often and approval had always been her weakness. Now, each word penetrated her as fully as his cock did and she was going to ride them to the end.

“Your willingness to learn, despite the difficulties you’ve encountered in your life—to improve, to become as good as you can be both personally and . . . uhhhh . . . professionally.”

His chest lifted off the grass as she slammed down onto him with greater force, fucking him with the vigour that his words inspired.  

“But what I will remember most is the kindness you’ve shown to me. I’ve never had that from anyone. That level of acceptance, trust, understanding and . . . selfless . . . support is something entirely foreign to me. But I’m getting used to it.” He pulled in a few deep breaths as she continued her assault on his cock. “And I’m worried that if I get too used to it . . . there’ll be no going back.”

“I don’t plan to go . . . back.” Hermione closed her eyes as she grasped his hands even tighter, feeling that familiar pull deep inside her. “I only plan to go forward. And I want you . . . there . . . with me.” Then her voice left her as he thrust up emphatically to meet each of her downward jolts. Only a few deep strokes and she was on the edge.

“Will you come . . . with . . . me . . . Severus?” Her voice was a tremulous gasp as her pussy started to convulse. “Uuuhhhhh!”

“Yessss,” he hissed as his cock began seizing inside her.

She bucked and writhed upon him, her pelvis shuddering in spastic waves as he jerked into her, shooting his seed up her undulating channel, painting it with stream after stream of his essence, until he was completely drained.

Collapsing onto his chest, she wrapped her arms around his glistening torso, their bodies fused and his cock still embedded within her.

“This is a new beginning, Severus,” she breathed. “For all of us.”

 

 


	23. The Final Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems that most are happy to end the story as originally intended. So here it is. Enjoy! DS

Hermione flipped over the paper on her desk just as Severus entered, moving with his usual disconcerting expeditiousness.  

He sat without being invited and placed a roll of parchment on the desk in front of her. She had to suppress the smile at his refusal to conform with Galladdon convention.

Wiping a hand across her mouth as though stifling a yawn, she reached out and unrolled the parchment.

“So this is everything we need, is it?”

“For now. I’ll ask the house-elves to owl this order through to the Apothecary suppliers. And Pomona informed me that she will send the batch from Hogwarts when she returns tomorrow.”

“How did she manage to arrange that so quickly?”

“Turns out Hagrid has sorted it. Seems he is desperate to get in her good books after propping open the greenhouse so that the Venomous Tentacula could take a wee stroll.”

“Oh Merlin! So Hagrid was responsible for the attack on the first years?”

“Not for the first time. Nor probably the last,” Severus mused.

It was true. Hagrid’s soft spot for dangerous creatures had gotten him into a spot of bother on more than one occasion.

“Still, it’s excellent that he’s helping us,” she said brightly. “At this rate, it won’t be long before we have one of the most impressive collections of plants and potion ingredients in the world.”

“Did you expect anything less?” Severus raised a dark eyebrow.

Hermione’s bottom lip slipped between her teeth as she considered him. She had too much to discuss with him to get drawn into a battle of innuendos; though plenty did readily leap to mind.

“I actually have some news that might impress you,” she said instead.

“Really?” She didn’t miss the drawl. “I’m not easily impressed.”

There it was again, another morsel, a titbit of bait to hook her up and reel her in. She wasn’t biting. Yet.

“Calder and Jaeger are coming back.”

His head jerked a little in surprise. “Together?”

“Separately. For now.”

Both eyebrows rose this time. It appeared that she had impressed him.

“I thought they deserved a second chance.” She watched him carefully.

“As does everyone.” He inclined his head, keeping his eyes locked on hers.

“How's Shaun going with the path to the Glade?”

Severus have a snorting laugh. “I offered to help him. The rocks could be levitated up there in a fraction of the time but he’s determined to do it all by hand.”

Hermione leaned back in her seat and twisted a little to look out her window. She could just see the bottom of the beautifully crafted path as it curled up the hill. “He’s certainly a glutton for punishment.”

“Perhaps you should rephrase that.”

Hermione caught herself and instantly felt guilty.

“After all, he’s not the only glutton for punishment . . . around . . . here.” Severus rubbed his thumb delicately against his middle finger as his gaze penetrated hers and Hermione only just stopped herself from squirming.

“Well,” she responded breathily. “He does seem much happier for it.”

“He certainly sleeps well,” Severus muttered. “Snores like a giant Kneazle.”

“Is that why you spend so little time sleeping there?” she asked, widening her brown eyes innocently.

She could see a smirk threatening to capture his features but he made a valiant effort to rein it in.

“And what of Master Creevey?” He changed the topic.

“He’s heading home with Sarah tomorrow. Apparently they’re going to be flatmates.”

Severus laughed, a deep rumble rolling from his chest. “They’ll be good for each other.”

“I think so too. And there was no way Sarah was going to return to her family. I’m confident that it was her father who was responsible for her mutism in the first place. She seems much more grounded, at peace with herself now.”

She watched Severus’ expression and it didn’t change. She suspected that he had no lasting attachment to Sarah beyond his goodwill toward her.

“And Miss Lovegood is staying on?”

“Yes, she and Shaun will be here for at least the next six weeks. They’ll both be re-evaluated after that. Although, I have a sneaking suspicion that we might be seeing quite a bit of her, regardless. I heard her talking to George and Lynch about doing a counselling course by owl.”

Severus nodded. “She’d be very good.”

Hermione breathed in deeply. He was right, Luna would make an excellent counsellor; she dearly hoped she would stay, for all of their sakes, particularly George’s.  

“So did you manage to talk to Ellory?” Hermione asked. “In your latest ‘therapy’ session.”

Severus peered down his nose at her. “Tut, tut, Dr Granger, what did I say to you about controlling your jealousy?”

“I don’t remember, Professor Snape,” she responded. “Although I do recall something about ‘ownership’ on your part.”

He sighed. “Do you want to know or not?”

“Yes,” she replied quickly.

“It turns out . . . and I expect you not to use this against her in any way,” he added, frowning at Hermione sternly until she huffed and nodded, “that Ellory’s partner had presented her with an ultimatum. She had to choose. Her relationship or her job. Ellory said she’d done a pretty good job of fucking up both, having little success here and spending no time at home. Anyway, lately she said she’s been feeling better. Like she’s making a difference. And I noted that she has exactly twenty-five sunflowers in her room.”

Hermione smirked. “I wondered why she was looking so tanned.”

“I believe she enjoys their healing properties.”

“Vanity can be very healing for some,” replied Hermione. “Only joking,” she interrupted as Severus opened his mouth to respond.

“Maybe we should invite her partner here for a visit while Lynch is on leave?”

Severus gave a small thoughtful nod.

“Male or female?”

“Who?”

“Is Ellory’s partner a male or a female?” Hermione repeated.

“Male, I’m guessing.”

“Why?”

Severus shrugged. “Because she seems to like men.”

“That’s it?”

“She did spend an inordinately long time on my ‘groin tension’.”

“Perhaps you have an inordinately high degree of tension in your groin.” Hermione leaned forward, exposing her cleavage in the new low-cut shirt she’d transfigured for herself.

This time he couldn’t prevent it, the smirk alighting his features fleetingly before he schooled them into a frown.

“She might be bisexual,” Hermione continued. “Or trisexual.”

He raised a hand. “You’re right. Point taken. I shouldn’t have made any such assumptions.”

Hermione leaned back in satisfaction at finally being able to catch him out in sexual judgement. But her pleased smirk was short-lived as he suddenly lunged forward and snatched the paper from where it had lain protectively under her palm.

“Now let’s see what you’ve been trying to hide from me this whole time.”

He frowned at the sheet, then turned it sideways, trying to make sense of it.

“If I’m not mistaken, Dr Granger, these are images of two figures in a variety of . . . positions.”

Hermione placed the end of her pen between her teeth as her cheeks flushed. “I was just . . . They were just a few ideas that I . . . “

“I’m assuming that you are the stick figure tied to the tree?”

“Oh . . . um . . . yes.”

“And why am I fat with a pointy head?”

Hermione burst out laughing. “Because I always draw you as a . . . starfish.”

Severus sighed. “How many times have I asked you not to call me that?”

“I just like it too much.” She stood and sauntered around the desk until she was standing in front of him. Then she leaned back and spread her legs so that her feet were on either side of his. “And deep down I think you do too.”

He tossed the paper aside. “I think you know what I like . . . deep . . . down.” His voice, alone, was enough to oil her to the core.

“I believe I do.” Her eyes roved over him, lingering on his crotch. “But I can always use a little more teaching.”

“What would you call that?” He reached out and took her by the wrist. “On the job training?"

“I prefer to call it continuous professional development.” She put on her most Doctorish voice. “At least no one can accuse me of not wanting to be good at my job.”

He raised one eyebrow, his lips pouting slightly in what she had come to know as his ‘come fuck me’ look.

With a lighting fast yank, he pulled her onto his ironclad erection.

“Show me just how good you are,” he murmured into her cleavage.

She smiled down at him. “Yes, sir.”

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Watcher in the Woods](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13740288) by [MyWitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyWitch/pseuds/MyWitch)




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